No More Strawberries
Moving Toward Healing and Wholeness
Rotten
strawberries, little more than mush, were covered with white fuzz that obscured
the red that once sang out their juice-filled sweetness. I took the package from
the fridge and tossed it in the trash—a motion I had repeated for weeks. “Why
do the strawberries keep going bad? Why isn’t someone eating them?” I asked. I thought
about each of us—my husband, my daughter, and me. None of us were fond of
strawberries. I like blueberries, nectarines, grapes, and peaches. My fourteen-year-old
daughter preferred other snacks. My husband didn’t like strawberries. I was
stumped, but not for long.
It
hit me with yet another punch to the gut: Alexa loved strawberries and preferred
them overripe, at the just-juicy-enough stage, the sweetness at its peak, when
you dare not wait another day to eat them because it would be too late. So, I
didn’t buy the firmest strawberries and instead chose those that would be at
the top of their flavor game in only a few days.
When
I put those green plastic baskets in the trash, the flavor game had long been
lost. Lost—loss—was fitting because I was learning how to live after the loss
of Alexa. She was seven and a half when she died of brain cancer only a few
months before my strawberry realization.
Buying
strawberries was not a conscious act. I probably saw them in the produce
department and some part of my psyche on autopilot put them in the cart. I was
undergoing so many changes and fumbling my way through loss; the strawberries
were just one more life change to make. Once I realized I was buying berries
for Alexa, I stopped. I do buy them from time to time, but I’m content to get
them at their peak in strawberry season. I prefer other fruits, so I’m rather indifferent
to strawberries.
I
wasn’t indifferent to my realization that I was buying them only to let them go
to waste. This past week, I read One True
Thing by Anna Quindlen. Ellen, the main character, took over cooking,
cleaning, and all household responsibilities during her mother’s terminal
illness. After her mother dies, Ellen goes on autopilot and continues to cook
and clean a friend’s house. But she notes an emptiness, a rote quality to her
behavior. It reminded me of the strawberries.
Grieving
is hard. Every time we experience loss—whether it’s from death, divorce, a new job, moving across the country—we step onto foreign soil. When we lose
a loved one whose life has been weaved into the fabric of our own, our routines
are shattered. What once were normal activities—welcoming a loved one home,
buying favorite foods, planning outings—become stark reminders of just what
we’ve lost. We become different people in our lives, routines, and even in our
reactions to what goes on around us. Not shopping for school supplies was and
continues to be hard for me (yes, I know I can donate them). I often stared and
had to catch my breath when I saw girls Alexa’s age with long blonde hair and
green eyes. I didn’t know it, but bypassing the strawberries in the produce
aisle also was hard. When I was aware, stopping also was hard. It was one more
thing to remove from my mental list.
Part
of the grief process, as well as at any time of transition in our lives, is
reconfiguring our routines. Our rote behaviors often continue despite changes
and transitions in our lives. It is important when we note those behaviors that
we consider what we’re doing and look for alternate ways of living that are a closer fit to our changed circumstances. It hinders our healing
when we consciously keep doing many of the same things we have always done if
they no longer apply to our lives.
New
behaviors, new shopping lists, new routes home, will move forward our healing
and our return to whatever wholeness we can attain—in spite of loss.
Then,
one day, if we are fortunate, we realize that we keep “throwing out the
strawberries.” It’s then that we must ask:
Why
am I buying strawberries?
