The Way Back

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 9:42 a.m. and with both Amira and Butters still sleeping, I figured this was the perfect time to write.

If you could see me now, I fear you wouldn't recognize me.

For one thing, I've gotten fat. Really, really fat. Like, I wouldn't even DREAM about attempting to squeeze my fat ass into the jeans I wore when you were still with us, that kind of fat. 

You see, when you died, no, before you died, when you were lying in intensive care at St. Francis Hospital, my binge eating began in earnest. It probably sounds stupid to you but...eating my way through the pain helped. When I was stuffing my face with sour cream and onion chips, Ritz crackers and Cabot's Vermont sharp, white cheddar cheese, the pain of your accident, of our daughter having to see her father being carted off by an ambulance, became much more manageable for me. Nothing hurt as much because I was using all that junk food to anesthetize myself. But in the aftermath of your death, the junk food consumption increased. I sat on your futon for a year, attempting to bury my feelings with all of the bounty I'd pick up immediately after dropping Amira off at school. The foods I'd deemed forbidden for the almost ten years we were together once again beckoned me with the relentless seduction of a long-lost, but never quite forgotten, toxic lover. I had a ritual. After saying goodbye to Amira at her drop-off door, I'd put on my headphones and head straight to the Jewel across the street to pick up whatever snacks I was in the mood for that day. On particularly bad days, days in which I knew that the mere acknowledgement of my grief from a well-meaning Peirce parent would be enough to contradict my carefully crafted "we're doing as well as can be expected, thank you so much for thinking of us" stock reply, I'd simply avoid all possibility of such an encounter by walking to the Jewel on Broadway instead. And after filling my backpack with contraband, I'd head home for a day of binge eating and ESPN, only leaving the futon to pee and to pick up Amira at 3:00 p.m.

But my life is really different these days.

There are no longer "trigger foods" in my house. Instead, when the salty cravings strike, I snack on pre-planned, pre-portioned, relatively healthy, skinny pop or pretzel crisps with guacamole. I keep Amira's tempting treats upstairs with Grandma, and I work out 5 days a week without fail on the elliptical. I rejoined Weight Watchers, and after a rocky few months that I FULLY blame on the coronavirus, I'm finally back to tracking my meals every day, and checking in with my online WW group every Tuesday at 6:00 p.m. I've lost almost 10 pounds this year but I've gained SO much more than any scale can measure. I no longer try to outrun my grief; I know better now. I know that the pain of losing you didn't break me; it's four years later and I'm still here. I work full-time from home (my first full-time job since being diagnosed with MS in 2000), I help Amira with her schoolwork, and I do my damnedest to parent our daughter the way I wish I'd been parented.

I didn't give up, Babe. I didn't lose you and decide to just check out on life altogether. I fell down many, MANY more times than I care to admit but the thing is... I'm still here. And I think I'm doing a pretty decent job of creating the life that I've always wanted to live.