Cleaning out the fridge

Silly little things take on outsized meaning for me now. Some simple tasks are difficult because of what they imply or the painful memories they stir.

For example, cleaning the recycling bin: On June 17th, Sandy started vomiting as she was eating her breakfast; I dumped paper out of the recycling bin in the living room and handed it to her. We left for Urgent Care a few minutes later, and from there went to the hospital. When I returned home from the hospital for an hour or two at a time, I couldn't face cleaning the vomit out of the container, so I took it down to the basement bathroom and left it there. Months later, it remained, slowly getting moldy. Even looking at the bright blue bin sent pain stabbing through my chest, as memories of that confusing, terrifying day flooded my brain. But knowing that it was downstairs getting moldier weighed on me. I was reminded of it every time I opened the day's mail and have to walk to the kitchen to recycle an envelope. I finally cleaned the bin on November 6. I sobbed the whole time, but I felt so much better afterwards. I not only restored our home to just a little more normalcy, but I washed away some of the pain of that day.

Every time I open the refrigerator door, I see remnants of Sandy's days at home before we moved to Bailey Boushay House. Every few weeks, I manage to discard something that causes me pain. This week, I composted the peas that I'd picked for Sandy on July 4; she ate a few and the rest went into the fridge and never came out again. They'd been back there in their old yogurt container, just hanging out, shriveling up, and waiting for me to face them. Now they're with the rest of the food scraps in the green cone and one more painful reminder is gone.

Eventually, I'll have to toss the cookie dough she had a friend bring her that week. There are a few other stragglers still to go. I'm still coming upon things in the fridge and the freezer that surprise and challenge me.

Besides the items that came into the house in early July, there are the artifacts of Sandy's projects and tastes. I don't care for pickled things; she loved them. I suspect I'll just compost all the pickled carrots, cukes, and other things waiting, bright-colored and expectant, at the back of the fridge. I'm not even sure how old they are, so I'm uncomfortable giving them to anyone else. And I'm not going to eat them. But removing them confirms that I don't believe she's coming back. Most days I don't have the emotional energy for such tasks.