Some things are just too hard for me to say in first person….I’m feeling a need to detach myself from the last few weeks, so forgive my literary license today:

She woke up on Wednesday, with the fog of chemo slowly clearing from the crevices of her mind, wondering out loud if she’d ever feel truly healthy again.  The toxic feeling that came upon her during the last weeks of treatment had settled into her muscles, her joints, and unfortunately, even her tongue.  The wonderful scents of her kitchen were packed away, along with her love of coffee.  Little by little, she had simply stopped cooking and eating, to no one’s notice or surprise. Her family had learned to orbit around the new and temporary reality, which came to include take out pizzas and burgers…all things that represented a family life so foreign to her, she barely knew where to start when her husband had suggested, “Eating take out for a few weeks won’t kill us.”  Knowing he was right, she acquiesced to the flavorless menu of salt and fat, realizing that Americans weren’t just eating themselves to death, but that they were doing it with BAD food.  Such a travesty.

Having come back from serious illness before, she knew the best road back to “normal” would simply be to walk the paths she had always walked.  Pretend to feel normal, and normal will gently return.  She might be so busy tossing out medicine that she wouldn’t even notice.  She rounded up her daughters, and her neighbor who had been helping her get from Point A to Point B over the early summer weeks, and she drove everyone to the Farmer’s Market at the City Market.  Wednesday summer mornings spent downtown, gazing over the heaping piles of fruits and vegetables, were a symbol to her of everything that was right about quitting her job.  She looked forward to the Market through the long winter months, and even though the seasons had turned and the girls had begged for grilled buttered corn on the cob, shucked hot in the husks, she couldn’t bring herself to get there this year.  It was time, and she was determined, despite the 90 degree weather, to find a piece of herself, maybe hidden cleverly in the quarts of fresh green beans.

Nothing could have soured her mood as the girls squealed at the sight of their favorite honey vendor, with her countless jars of honey sticks in every flavor imaginable.  The girls carefully picked out 10 sticks, completely ignoring the oppressive heat and crowds of people gathering around their wagon.  She smiled and waved at farmers who had sold her tomatoes, squash, Lodi apples, baby red potatoes, and ridiculously sweet Indiana corn year after year.  They had a good laugh at her “Bacon is a Vegetable” tshirt that covered her missing flesh, and for the first time in weeks, she meant it when she returned the smiles and warm greetings.  She felt GOOD ENOUGH.  She felt NORMAL. She introduced herself to the Harvest Moon Flower Farm folks, so pleasant and passionate about their beautiful flowers.  She had always wanted to stop there, but never allowed herself to spend precious grocery money on flowers.  This year, everything was different.  This year she picked up the biggest bouquet she could carry, pulled our her allowance, and said to anyone within earshot, “You only live once.  I should have fresh flowers.”

Their happy little band escaped the heat inside the City Market and stopped for Icees and a chat with the woman who had been selling her cookies for 22 years.  The meat market had closed.  Her favorite Italian deli was gone.  The Market owners had changed hands again and again with promises to revamp the space and lower the rents.  With each change of ownership, she and the cookie vendor would talk of their hopes for the beautifully historic space.  She had fallen in the love the City Market on a 6th grade field trip, and she had never stopped going back, despite change and circumstance.  She introduced herself to the new pretzel vendor, thinking hot pretzels might be fun at a birthday party.  After all, it’s Indiana, aka “The State Where People Introduce Themselves and Stay For A Little Chat”.  She wished them the best, because there was little she liked better than hot pretzels.

They worked their way back through the sweltering crowd, stopping for the overpriced corn the girls just HAD to have.  Who has children who beg to eat vegetables, she thought?  She could barely carry her heavy bag of goodies to the car.  She imagined Spiced Peach Shrimp and Blueberry Pie and Deep Fried Zucchini, all in her near future.  Suddenly, she wanted to cook.  She wanted to eat.  She wanted to feed her family again, which was the essence of her normal.

She could barely contain her excitement as she sliced the zucchini and squash that had probably been picked from the fields the night before.  She double breaded them in panko and polenta, triple dipping them in flour, milk, and the breading.  As they hit the grease, she parcel packed the fish, layering the filets with thyme, garlic and lemon.  She couldn’t wait to smell the red wine reducing in the roasting pan.  And then she heard it, the whines from her children, “OH MOMMY!  The kitchen smells SO SPICY!  Too much SCENT MOMMY!”, even while their hungry hands grabbed at the cooling vegetables.

She was cooking.  Her kids were complaining.  The red wine in the oven would soon set off the fire alarm.  Despite the moans and groans, everyone would lick their plates clean.  It was official: Normal had returned, through their stomachs, as is the proper route into anyone’s home.  She couldn’t help but think as she dove into the gigantic mounds of dishes, that she almost despised normal in all it’s predictability, until it was gone.  And then she longed for it’s return, like an old friend whose visits are treasured.  This time around, she was hoping normal would stay for a while, making itself far too familiar, leaving wet towels lying about, as if it owned the place.  And she hoped it liked “scenty” things for dinner, because while she finished the last pan, she turned to the junk drawer and threw out the take-out menus.  Welcome home Normal.  Welcome home.