Razors, Knives and Omelettes

Chris was in my dream last night.

We were in a parking lot that had potholes in the ground. I was in the driver’s seat of my car and Chris was standing outside leaning on the door talking with me. He said, “I’m going to Baystate today.”, which, in my dream, was a seafood place where he was going to get lobster or clam chowder with his friends from Vermont. I said to him, “Do you have enough money?” He took out a ten dollar bill and some singles and I said, “Here. Take this.” and handed him a twenty dollar bill. He said, “Are you sure?” and I said, “Yes. Take it. Go have fun.” I was filled with all of the love I felt for him in life and as he left, I walked toward the back of my car and remembered that he had cancer and was going to die. I began crying.

When I woke up, I thought he was still alive and took a few moments to reorientate myself to the here and now.

My new Chicago Cutlery kitchen knives are awesome and beautiful with their stainless steel handles and blades to match. Buying them made me very happy since the only knife I had left broke in half a couple of weeks ago while I was trying to slice through a watermelon.

Since last weekend, I have been feeling very anxiety-ridden and depressed and basically unable to calm the beast within. Sleep did not come easy this past week.

Although I have conquered the art of dating, entertaining the idea of beginning a new relationship has proven to be intensely crushing. Thursday evening’s date weighed on my mind like a wet load of laundry this past week, and I was hard-pressed to find the ability within myself to relax and just live my day-to-day life. The date went well. Still, I was left with another back draft of grief.

Hungry for breakfast this morning, I meandered into the kitchen to make a mushroom, onion and cheese omellette. Chris loved my omelettes, which I always arranged on the plate garnished with fresh fruit and a sprig of whatever I could find (parsley, a daisy, a plant leaf). He complimented me every time on both the presentation and the flavor. “That looks great, Shneed! You make the best omelettes!” he would exclaim in his excited-about-food way and we would eat them, periodically glancing up to smile at each other.

This morning, I had to scrape the surface of the glass-top-stove with a razor blade. When I looked at the blade, I was filled with excitement. I finished scraping and put the blade back into the drawer.

I cooked the eggs the way I did when Chris was alive, in a large frying pan. Once firm enough, I cut the circular egg-form in half in the pan as though I was making one for each of us, except that this time, I used one half as the bottom, put the cheese on top and used the other half as the cover. As the omelette fried in the pan, I started to fall apart. What began as breakfast-prep culminated in a Vesuvian eruption of anger, despair and thoughts of transforming one of my new Chicago Cutlery cooking utensils into a Chicago Cutlery self-maming utensil.

This episode of grief was brought to you by an old journal entry of mine from 1999 in which I described the beginning of my relationship with Chris. I stated, “We have only been on two dates, but I feel like I have known him forever.”

The anger was powerful, as was the fantasy. I could hear the *glitch* as I thrust the blade into the back of my hand, and I could see the blood, all too artistic and beautiful, plum-red, dripping down the blade toward the handle, coating the stainless steel angel of death in my love for Chris.

I sunk to the floor, my arms still on the countertop, knife still in hand repeating over and over, “I hate you, I hate you I hate you for leaving me! I hate you. How could you leave me?! I don’t want to be with somebody else. I want to be with you!”

I suppose the fact that I refrained from stabbing myself because I knew there would be pain involved is good news that proves I don’t really want to hurt myself. I have come to know that episodes such as this only mean that I want my pain to end...and that I want Chris to come back and be with me. I can’t have the latter, so I keep working toward easing my pain.

The two-year anniversary is coming way too fast. I feel like I can’t handle it. It’s too much. T w o y e a r s. How can this be?

I sat and ate my breakfast, breathing in between mouthfuls since my nose was no longer functioning.

And now? I am through the grief with not so much as a scratch on me. I am still not at zero, but I am back at the same low-grade anxiety I have been feeling all week, which is about all I am capable of right now.