I remember well…not wanting to eat but knowing I had to. Really, what I wanted to do was just wither up and die. It happened when Hubby #2 wanted out. It happened again when Hubby #3 up and died on me. It was everything I could do to make myself eat something and when I did, I wanted it over with…FAST.

Why is that? I think it’s because dining is a social ritual as much as giving your body what it needs. Dining also gives your mind what it needs…conversation, socialization, eye contact, touching hands as you pass the food, and (if you are MOST fortunate) doing the dishes together. When your partner dies, everything changes. What you eat. Even the way you eat it.

I remember stopping at the store and buying a rotisserie chicken because I hadn’t had protein for longer than I could remember. Nothing tasted good. Everything tasted like wet cardboard. You could chew oatmeal forever and not swallow. For some reason, a rotisserie chicken sounded comforting. I picked out a nice, plump hen…roasted golden brown. It smelled of herbs and garlic and whatever magic they put in those things to make them fall off the bone delicious.

I got home and went straight to the kitchen sink, ripped open the container, and…standing there in front of the kitchen window…I grabbed hot, juicy chicken by the handfuls and shoved them in my mouth. I was suddenly ravenous. It was barbaric. As some point I stopped and caught my reflection in the glass door of the microwave. I didn’t even recognize myself. Who WAS this mad woman in my kitchen, eating roasted chicken with her bare hands, grease dripping off her chin onto her good work clothes she hadn’t even taken off?

I covered the container, washed my hands, and put the leftovers in the fridge. I went into the bedroom and sat on his side of the bed and started talking to him.

“Babe, I’m in trouble here.” I whispered. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I eat like a dog rummaging through the can next door. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” I stretched out on his side of the bed, buried my face in his pillow, and cried gut-wrenching sobs till I fell asleep. I woke up somewhere around 3:00am with the full moon shining in my eyes through the bedroom window. I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees and gently rocked myself…still on his side of the bed. Suddenly, I remembered something.

Mr. Virgo and I had a formal dining room table and a beautiful kitchen table and chairs made out of hickory. The only sore spot in our marriage was his insistence that we sit at the coffee table in the living room and watch TV when we ate. I hated that. HATED. But I did it. Because…I know know. I loved him. And he liked it. So I gave in. I hadn’t turned the TV on since he died. I hated it that much. And now? Now I could look at this as a new beginning. A new start. A new…normal. Not that I liked that very much but it was a far cry better than eating like a pig over a trough.

For the next twenty-one days, I cooked. And I dressed the table…MY table…the one I wanted Mr. Virgo to sit at with me. I bought myself flowers every week. I lit candles. I put on music. And I made myself sit down and eat. The only distraction I allowed myself was one magazine…something without a lot of words…something with lots of glossy pictures of flower gardens and beautiful houses. At the end of the three weeks, I was tamed. I wasn’t eating rotisserie chicken with my bare hands over the kitchen sink anymore. I considered that a success.

Now that Mr. FixIt and I are together, I started things out right from the very beginning. Meal times are for sharing conversation. Making eye contact. Slowing down and connecting and savoring…not only the food, but each other. No cell phones. No newspapers. No mail sorting. No TV. Just us. And someday…if I lose him…I’ll have these beautiful memories to hold in my heart. And I’ll remember how to be civilized and dine. ❤

“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”
‭‭1 Corinthians‬ ‭10:31‬ ‭NIV‬‬