The New Normal

It's not the same.

The world did not stop when Mom died and sometimes that just seems so unfair.

Instead life kept rushing forward and I tried to keep up, tried to pretend nothing had changed. But of course it has.

Something – someone – is missing.

There is a hole in my life – bigger, deeper than before.

This is the new normal.

But every day is a new normal.

Things change, in big ways and in small, all the time. We adapt. We change. We accept.

Eventually.

When Mom first started to fail I would get so angry.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I would think, all full of Dylan Thomas and daughterly angst. “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

My rage was big, and loud, and physical, and angry.

And exhausting.

And useless.

Now I realize she did rage.

But her rage was small, and quiet, and peaceful, and accepting.

And a blessing.

Her rage wasn't a fight to avoid change like I wanted, but a fight to accept change. To face the end with dignity and grace.

She raged against the dying of the light by accepting the limits of physical change, but not letting it change who she was inside.

She made the most of what she still had. And she could still make people happy.

She could care. Smile. Laugh.

At her burial, as the minister said those last few words, as we said our last good byes, we accepted the physical change in our universe – her passing would leave a big, black, sucking emptiness where her body used to be. (Was her ever-shrinking body supposed to make that empty spot smaller? It didn't.)

But the emotional change, the emptiness in my heart, how could I accept that?

An ice cream truck approached from down the hill, the familiar notes of “Turkey in the Straw” ringing cheerfully across the quiet cemetery.

The air under the funeral home's tent, stifling with heat and sorrow just a moment before, changed, vibrated with barely suppressed giggles at the absurd juxtaposition.

“Dorothy would be the first one at that truck, buying us all ice cream,” said my friend-family-sister Sue.

We laughed aloud in recognition and relief.

And acceptance.

Because that is exactly what she would have done.

Exactly what she would want us to do.

Make the most of what we still had: each other.

Make people happy. Care about them. Ask about them. Listen to them.

Smile.

Laugh.

Buy them ice cream.

Accept the new normal.

In Heaven There Are No Jell-O Shots

The other day I needed to make a salad to take to a funeral dinner, so I did what any modern kitchen wizard would do.

I Googled it.

Usually I just take my go-to specialty for any gathering: orange sherbert/Jell-O salad. I even keep a supply of orange Jell-O and mandarin oranges in the cupboard in case of emergency.

The key ingredient, of course, is the pint of orange sherbert. That's just not something I'm willing to sacrifice freezer space for long term. And no one wants long-term orange sherbert, trust me. For some unfathomable reason, pints of orange sherbert can be very hard to find... especially when I am in dire need. This always makes me wonder: Is everyone else making this salad, too?

Do people actually eat orange sherbert by itself? Or is it like Cool Whip (the final ingredient), relegated forever to a supporting role?

As my wondering grows exponentially, eventually I arrive at: Do grocery stores on either coast even stock Jell-O and pints of sherbert?

We in the Midwest do love our Jell-O. Jell-O and sherbert seem to go hand in hand, at least when it comes to salads. Would I want to live in a world without Jell-O? Or sherbert?

This orange salad is a tradition in my husband's family. His grandmother used to make it for him and, as he was the only boy-child in the family, his mother and sisters followed suit. I'm more than happy to join the enablers because it is an easy, easy recipe. One that I have only screwed up a couple of times.

I have even been entrusted with the special bowl that Grandma always served it in. Or not. That's the problem with family recipes. There's a certain amount of built-in ambiguity – or as the hubby calls it “revisionist history.” Everyone remembers a different bowl and/or salad. (But if either sister is reading this: You are right. Your sister is wrong.)

While I happily make the salad, I draw the line at using The Bowl. Despite years of marriage, I carry outsider guilt. What if I break The Bowl?

Some family members think The Bowl was used for the other salad – a strawberry concoction that (may or may not have) had a pretzel crust and layer of cream cheese. Then again, either of the salads (orange or strawberry) may (or may not have) been made in a ring mold.

Of course it's not just my husband's family who perpetuate the whole recipe/serving dish family tradition.

My grandma always made what (I swear) she called “Heavenly Hash,” although if you Google it, you'll need to look for “Waldorf Salad.” Her version featured Cool Whip, mini-marshmallows, apple chunks, pecans, and swearing whilst halving the red grapes to remove the seeds. And it was always – always – served in a white milk-glass bowl.

My mom always made Four-Layer Dessert for funerals and other functions. She usually made chocolate (topped with chocolate curls) or coconut (with toasted coconut), but she was also known to make the occasional banana version (with real banana slices) if she was feeling wild and crazy.

My first memory of this dessert was a pistachio version made for a 4-H meeting, back when we always had color-coordinated refreshments served on glass snack trays. The punch (usually featuring sherbert) was served in matching glass cups, ladled out of an honest-to-God (glass) punch bowl.

The hub's family calls this dessert Texas Special, and it is almost exclusively chocolate. Not that I'm complaining. Everything tastes better when someone else make it.

I, myself, am a complete and total failure when it comes to making this dessert. I am unable (no matter how many tips my sisters-in-law give me) to successfully make the crust. However, I do double up on the cream cheese/Cool Whip/powdered sugar layer to compensate. In my humble opinion, this layer should be designated a salad in its own right and served in the Holy Grail.

But I digress.

My Google search for “funeral salads” was both surprisingly successful (apparently “funeral salads” is a popular search term), and dishearteningly un-varied. I am currently taking a class in nutrition, so I am victim of a nagging little voice that poo-poos all the traditional funerial salads: mayonaise, Cool Whip, mini-marshmallows, Jell-O... ewww! All of these are comfort-food – and thus funeral-salad – staples.

The problem is that in a pot-luck setting, everyone has their own speciality. I could have tried to branch out to broccoli salad, but someone always brings one of those. I could have tried pasta salad – ditto. Don't even think about pea-salad or macaroni salad, the market is covered. And potato salad straddles that fine line between side dish and salad. Better to commit a mortal sin than to annoy the church kitchen ladies.

Then there are my own personal food rules: no mixing veggies and fruit. Or veggies and Jell-O, if I can help it. God forbid you combine veggies and Cool Whip. Lime Jell-O deserves its own special ring in Hell. And, although I like raisins in theory (and by themselves), please keep them out of my salad. I will eat them in a broccoli salad provided it includes bacon, but I won't be happy about it.

While we're at it, the only Jell-O I want at my funeral dinner is Jell-O shots.

Let's just make this easy on every one and order pizza.

And beer.

And let's do it before I die.