My Dad was dying.
It had been coming on for awhile, and the previous three months had involved some sleepless nights and many trips to the ER. The whole family had been holding vigil in his hospital room for days. We knew all the doctors involved, and all the nurses who worked the floor. We had the hospital menu memorized. We knew where all the plugs to recharge phones were.
My youngest daughter and I broke out one bright sunny Sunday afternoon to shop for groceries, and specifically for our traditional Christmas Day Mexican food spread. It was what we called a “surgical strike”: in and out as quickly as possible, knowing exactly what you want.
Some background: my youngest daughter and I had a pretty contentious relationship at the time. We’d spend entire days struggling to communicate. We argued over everything. But once a week we had a respite. Sunday grocery shopping. We’d gather the grocery bags, and then drive to the store. It was easier to talk when we were driving, we could both look straight ahead, with little eye contact. It lowered the stakes, and allowed us to talk civilly.
I like grocery shopping. I rarely see it as a chore. It allows you to look ahead at the coming week, and plan for your meals as you plan your days. It’s relaxing for me (assuming the store isn’t crowded), an exercise in mindfulness.
And as we walked down the aisles of the grocery store on those Sundays, surrounded by bright colors and wonderful smells, contemplating good meals we’d eat in the near future, our contentiousness fell away. We had actual fun. We made fun of the dumber items (e.g. Potat-Oh’s) and salivated over the foods we enjoyed, dropping them into the cart with real love. Non-fragile items were often dunked in from several feet away, like basketballs. We bitched about all the weird food my Dad required (I still remember searching for the exact kind of peach preserves he liked, Smucker’s, no sugar added) It was a collaboration. And at the end of the shopping, in the last aisle, I always let her buy one piece of makeup. I’d mimic the expressions of the girls on the hair color boxes while she made her choice.
My Dad was dying. We’d been in the hospital for days. So that Sunday afternoon we broke out of the hospital, trading those dull institutional walls for bright sunny skies. We drove to King Soopers. We shopped. We laughed. We denied death for a few hours by contemplating life, the meals we’d eat in the coming days.
My takeaway memory is of pushing the loaded cart outside, into the sunlight. We ran through the lot. We sang. We actually sang. Nothing fancy: we sang a dumb song called “Must Be Santa,” made even dumber by the fake lyrics we used in lieu of the real ones (“Who’s got a big fat donkey head? Santa’s got a big fat donkey head!”). I even jumped in the air and clicked the heels of my sneakers a few times, aided by the handlebar of the shopping cart.
We went home, put away the groceries, and then we returned to the hospital, to continue the important work of grieving and saying our goodbyes. But I will always pair those dark moments in the hospital with the bright unexpected joy of grocery shopping with my daughter, clicking our heels as we sang stupid songs and pushed our cart through the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, effortlessly laughing at death, and finding our way back home.
My daughter and her family are moving to the East coast in a few days. To say I will miss them is a wild understatement. Merry Christmas honey. I’m glad I have this memory of us.
I’m proud of you. Your Grandpa would be proud too.
Peace.
Thank you for bringing this memory to life. I miss Sunday shopping with you. I will miss you so much but don’t worry I will call you all the time. Thank you for helping me get to this point in life, I’m very grateful for you holding my hand and walking me through my first few years of adulthood. You have taught me how to do this crazy thing called adulthood I love you and will miss you.
We miss you everyday grandpa.