Letting Go

 

Some folks (fortunately not my family) are a bit bossy about what I should be doing.  You need to eat more.  You need to move. You need to take it easy.   It doesn't bother me (much) because I know they care for me and want me to be safe. 

(Except for my neighbors who came by several times to ask me if I was ready to move.  They finally confessed that they wanted my condo!)

I want to be safe - but there are so many more things I want and need to enjoy my life.  We all need meaning and purpose and I'm blessed to still have that and to help others along the way.  

I was going through some old journals recently and ran across something I'd written in 2003.  My husband, Ken had been terminally ill for a few years but, and despite spending every other day hooked up to a dialysis machine, he still had meaning and purpose.  He also had a wife who was constantly trying to get him to eat properly.  When your kidneys shut down the only way toxins leave the body is through dialysis - and this is not a perfect system.  

Finally, after conferring with Ken's doctors I decided to throw in the towel (food nagging wise.)  Following is what I wrote in my journal on May, 13, 2003. 

I've decided to let Ken eat whatever he wants. 

Last night we were sitting at dinner.  Ken had asked for the mac & cheese he'd ordered the day before at Cracker Barrel.  Along with that he had roast beef, fish and mashed potatoes.   I watched him pile tartar sauce on his fish.  Then entertained myself by reading the label "350 msg of sodium per teaspoon."  Ken ate half of the jar.

At 11 am we picked him up from the dialysis center.  He was all shaky and barely able to get himself from the wheelchair to the car .  It's looking like it will take at least two of us going forward to load him in and out.  He has great difficulty breathing. 

But he managed to stagger into the kitchen in med afternoon to eat an entire jar of pickles!

Ken loved to eat.  He loved to overeat.  In his last few weeks he could no longer eat his crazy amount of crazy food but he still loved a special orange cake I used to bake.  It, too, was bad for him but now we were in cahoots.  So I made a big sheet cake every week, cut it into individual squares and put them in the freezer so he could have one whenever he wanted.  This gave both of us pleasure.

So how do I feel about abandoning my job as the food police knowing full well that what Ken was eating could be doing him harm? 

 I feel fine. Wish I'd done it sooner.  

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