Cracking Eggs
My Mom died on a Saturday night. At the time I realized my nightmare was in fact coming true I was standing in my kitchen cracking eggs. I left her side for the first time in six days to come home and cook for us both. She insisted I leave - maybe she knew.
My brother called after being home only two hours and the reality hit me - gasping for air and hysterical I ran out the door- to rush to be with them in the hospital. I guess the egg yolks were put away.
At the time my Mom and I both ate 3 foods though she was actually down to 2. Egg yolks was one of them. This meant dozens of eggs were separated weekly for us both to consume. We spoke to each other usually as we each cracked our dozens for the week - knowing if we could make a lot it would be that many days before we repeat the painful process that we hated.
At various points in the years of 3 foods we made them for each other. My mom diligently cracked my eggs and filled my freezer on the final days of my pregnancy while on bedrest and right after birth when I was in the nicu with my son. Ensuring I would eat and in truth, I could almost taste her love in them.
In the last 6 weeks of my Mom’s life I cracked for her. Weekly cooking for her to ensure she kept eating. She fought me often but ultimately had to give in also feeling the love I put into them.
Neither of us trusted another soul to do this task for us. And it was just another weird part of our normal that we shared. That only we understood.
Egg yolks are still a large part of my diet but the act of making them immediately brings me back to that night - to my Mom- but not the good memories- the memories of losing her. And just like tonight, I often find myself making them on a Saturday, further reminding me of that moment. I rarely can escape my association of this. I wonder if this will always be true. Grief is funny this way-never knowing what will be a trigger. I have learned to ride the waves it brings.
Now as I crack I work on replacing my feelings of sadness with gratitude - something she and I practiced - reminding ourselves to always be grateful for a food we could eat- even if it is a pain in the ass to make. And I am of course grateful for her - for her love and care and for the laughter we would share while cracking our eggs. This is how I want to remember her.
When I returned home from the hospital, in the wee hours of morning- heartbroken and shocked - I naturally found my egg yolks in the fridge and with tears in my eyes- I cooked them. I know she would not have wanted it any other way.
