The Closest Cafe

Well, we’re officially almost two-thirds of the way through 2010, one of the most challenging years of my life.

I’m so happy to share that the past 2 months have been really great – summer has been filled with glorious sunshine, cheerful birthday parties, rewarding work, and personal fitness. I even went so far as labelling August 16th as the “best day of year” after a wonderful time celebrating my daughter’s birthday.

During the previous day, I had the “Glee-ful” experience of choreographing, teaching, and performing a “flash mob” with 11 kids during our daughter’s pancake breakfast birthday party... Talk about total and complete silly fun!!

I felt that all was well, until lunchtime at work the following day. I was hungry, but hadn’t had time to pack a lunch, as the fridge was full of pancakes, pudding and cupcakes! I was craving a turkey sandwich and was running out of time before my next patient was scheduled. So I headed off to the closest lunch spot – the cafe at the BC Cancer Agency.

I briefly hesitated, knowing that this building was the site of several previous visits with my dad, during his illness. But I thought that I’d be fine – I’d been parking in front of that building for weeks and had no emotional reaction .

So, in I walked, feeling hungry and confident that everything was going to be okay. I was wrong.

I ordered a turkey sandwich, then glanced briefly down the corridor. Unfortunately, I let my guard down for a brief moment, and the memory of my last visits there flooded back. I thought about how my dad needed help filling out the computerized well-being questionnaire and how he said he was feeling unbearably nauseous. Mom and I had chatted about the decor and friends she knew who volunteered there. Dad was wearing his Kahki pants - the belt fastened with a buckle featuring an RCAF emblem – the belt which was so important then, as he was losing weight rapidly. I remember his slow shuffling gait, and how he waiting impatiently as I retrieved the car from the staff parking lot - I insisted that he conserve his energy. That was only a relatively short time ago, in February. Now, it was August and he was gone. February was a lifetime ago.

“Turkey Sandwich ready.” The lady behind the counter spoke. Oh no. The simple hunger that I felt a few minutes before was now replaced by the intense visceral burning of sadness – the kind of hopeless grief that can only be relieved by a period of tearful solitude. A period of time which was not booked into my afternoon schedule. So I forced down half of the nauseating sandwich – with only my left brain to encourage me to chew. I took a few deep breaths and concentrated on the walk back to the outpatient building so that I could fully focus on my afternoon patients. I successfully held the tears back until a more convenient time.

Now, I am able to put this episonde into perspective. This was an intense moment of sadness during a great week. In May and June I was experiencing these moments several times every day. For much of 2010, it felt rare to experience true happiness for an extened period of time, but now, I am enjoying hours, even days of joyful energy, as I regain the ability to be fully present with family and friends.

But I will likely be unable to eat a turkey sandwich for a long time. It will get added to the list of everyday objects now associated with sadness and grief – an Olympic hoodie, Mom's silver serving tray, Dad’s belt, the scent of cranberry scented bamboo sticks, and “Mr Bojangles”

Perhaps, next time I'm hungry at work, I'll go to Subway.