The Grocery Store and Grief

I thought to myself, “I can do this. I can do this one normal thing.” For getting “back to normal” is not actually ever going to happen. The normal that I dreamed for my life was shattered when I found out that my dad had suddenly died. But, a “new normal” is what people on the other side of intense grief assure me will occur. So here I was, list in hand and ready to approach my very normal Sunday routine of grocery shopping for my family. My littles were still resting, my big boys entertained by daddy, and off I went to the grocery. I buckled in, turned on some music and thought to myself how proud I was that I actually got out of bed that afternoon.

I pull up to the store, got a shopping cart and entered the store. And, then like a MAC truck, it hit me. The noise, the people, the lights, the balloons, the everything; It is all so overwhelming. What is it about a grocery store that overloads your senses when you are grieving? I should have remembered this feeling. After my first miscarriage, I found myself wondering the isles of the neighborhood market unable to decide on any purchase and crying when I returned to the car. Why didn’t I call someone else to shop for me? Did I really even want to conquer this task? For that would mean, I’m ready for live in the “new normal” and not mourn forever. It was just too much. But, I plowed ahead because the crying that would await me if I arrived home without milk or bananas would be enough to tip the scales into crazytown.

So, I proceeded with this list. Fruit. This should be easy enough. No, no, not easy enough. The grocery had recently reorganized their produce. The bananas were not were they used to be, there were three different stands for tomatoes and I sat starring at the pre chopped vegetables waiting for the frittata mix I regularly buy to magically appear just because I was starring at the empty shelf. I moved on to diary. Wow. When you are having a hard time making a decision, the dairy isle is not the place to be. And forget yogurt. Who in the world needs so many choices when it comes to yogurt? I’m pretty sure whatever I bought had a banana on it so I went with it.

I bumped into a cart, dropped my list, and then dropped my bag. It may have helped if I would have actually picked up my head and looked up for a few minutes while shopping. But, then I would have had to look at other people, lots of other people. People whose lives, I’m only assuming, could not be as miserable as mine is at the moment. Rationale tells me otherwise but the cloud of grief blinds you to feel isolated and broken and yet totally exposed and vulnerable at the same time. I found myself getting mad at everyone in the store as they stood making their cereal decisions. What a futile decision to be making at a time like this? My dad died. My world is crushing. My dreams are shattering. Don’t you care? Don’t you realize what is going on here? No, no you don’t. You are deciding between the 12 options of granola.

But, the irony is that I’m standing there next to you trying to decide too. What does that say of me? Am I really moving on? What does this one act mean? The answer is no. I’m not moving on. I’m overthinking this shopping trip too much. My new normal is being shaped but not because I want it to but because the needs of my family are real. Meals have to happen. Diapers have to be changed. Clothes have to be washed and dried. But, they just seem so insignificant in light of pain. Everything hurts. Every movement, every decision, every prayer, every thought twist my gut with an ache that is strong and deep. I know it will get easier. Everyone keeps saying that. But, I almost don’t want it to get easier, I want it to not be real, to go “back to normal.” And, of course, I know that just isn’t going to happen. I will have to make a decision about the granola, find the new location for the bananas, switch the laundry and change that diaper. Normal has to happen but it doesn’t mean I have to forget. I have a loving and faithful God who will comfort me, give me strength and shower me with hope.  That is my prayer for today and all the days to come. I will need faith. I will need comfort. I will need strength. I will need hope.

I made it through my list. Slowly loaded up my van and drove home. I was stuck there, however. I sat in my car and cried. And cried some more. I waited 15 minutes before entering my house with all those groceries. I know many more days will be like that. Wading through the day attempting to do normal things until the grief is too much to bear and through tears, a little of the pain is released. And, then, with the help of God, I’ll do it again tomorrow until the fog is not so dense, the ache is not so deep and the memories of my dad bring joy with their remembrance.