When my dad was in the hospital for either his first round of chemo, he was lying in bed, quiet, looking expressionless, numb. His lunch was sitting on a tray in front of him, but he didn’t touch any of it. All the sea-green plastic dishes multiple dishes stayed saran-wrapped. Mom slipped out to go to the bathroom, and in that three-minute interval. Dad leapt into action. He unwrapped the slice of cherry pie, attacked it with a fork, and wolfed the whole thing down before he lay back down, pretending he hadn’t moved for when Mom emerged.
I could not stop laughing, because it was a moment of normal in all the mega-serious changes in our lives. My mom watches his cholesterol like a hawk, so he never gets to indulge in how he’d really like to eat (steak, red wine, some dessert, and NOTHING green). Dad’s no fool. If there’s an opportunity to inhale a Mom-forbidden food, he was going for it.
Perfect. I laughed, I cried.