GROCERY LISTS are acts of love. On the fridge, my daddy’s lists still hang from magnet clips in his signature ink, black with red underlines. The red marks the details that mattered most: he wants the Butternut not the Wonder; the Snickers, not the Twix.
Daddy was flexible and open-hearted about a lot of things, but he had his preferences, like we all do, and trying to meet them as his caregivers, the ultimate calling.
Preferences are references—the way he wanted this but not that. He didn’t want just one beverage with his meal, but a whole lineup of choices: hot chocolate (Swiss Miss), apple juice (Jewel Signature), instant decaf (Nescafé), diet cola (Pepsi or Coke will do).
My sisters and I joke lovingly that his last words to me may have been: “Don’t forget the R.C.”
We didn’t forget the R.C. daddy! We bought a case of it for you.
When that R.C. case arrived on our doorstep, by the way, some of the cans had punctured and dried out—the cans remained in perfect form, just empty now of liquid—and it sort of felt like our daddy had sipped on these colas as he made his cosmic transition.
A magical thinking kind of explanation, to be fair, but one that still makes sense to me and my sisters, who also marveled at how and why this case of cola had arrived with so many empty cans.
Knowing what our people love takes a certain kind of attention that seems to fade if we don’t practice it—noticing the little things, a trope, for sure, but one that binds us like rope from one heart to the other.
I knew when I went to the store to select stuff for my daddy that I was on a mission to deliver his favorites and make him happy—Manischewitz and Kedem, please.
When he could no longer drive, when the victory was getting him onto the porch to perch like a tired king on the block where he’d lived for fifty years, these small but significant requests became my most important quest—to get it right, to make him happy, and of course, to not have to make a return trip to the store.
Same went for takeout orders—our daddy loved menus. He used to study them with glee—and, on occasion, make his orders clear. Polish with mustard, no onion, a side of chili, one tamale, a chocolate shake—daddy! You got it.
Was he supposed to eat all of this fatty goodness? Probably not, but his days had narrowed into such sharp focus—jazz and joy—and without much further ado, we tried to get the man exactly what he wanted—and, being good-natured and generally easy enough to please, meeting the mission always made everyone happy.
To know what our loved ones prefer is a superpower of sorts—knowing, itself, is a kind of love, and getting it, another. And it’s not just that the thing appears in real life, but the way it shows up and how.
I wish I could say I was pretty good at noting these small preferences that make my people happy. Most of the time, I try to take note. But I haven’t always been this way. I remember watching those newlyweds game shows where the host quizzes one person about the other’s preferences and think, wow, those are really hard questions, I am not sure what my boyfriend’s last meal would be!
But as I’ve gotten older, I’m learning that preferences reveal themselves through proximity.
There’s a lot of talk right now about the burden of caregiving for our elders, a lot of lament about how all this care falls on women, a lot of rage about why this country does so little to make it possible to give our elders the care they deserve after having worked so hard for so long. All of this is true and needs a major reset—I’m all for this.
I also want to talk about how caring for my daddy as he declined was the greatest honor and gift. I realized—only after he made his cosmic transition—that helping him die was part of him raising me. That when we care for our parents, we’re letting them parent us in this final act, allowing them to teach us what death looks like from the inside out.
Death lives inside the circle of life. That’s an idea I heard recently somewhere online and it’s stuck with me, the notion that death and dying are not separate or outside of life but within it.
Knowing what my daddy wanted and needed in his dying days helped me learn how to live better and with more love, and I’m grateful, even if those years with him were sometimes difficult and exasperating, and not at all what I expected.
Not everyone gets this experience—the decision to care for our aging parents is fraught with questions about capacity and commitment—I would never begin to assume that what worked for me and my sisters would apply to anyone else.
I’m still in the house where my daddy died, where we all lived as kids, where he spent his final years as a retired school teacher, ESL instructor, and infinite jazz man. There are traces of him everywhere—we still have a can of R.C. out for him, and a Snickers, in case he comes to visit. And I still see his Nutella jar in the cupboard (don’t judge me; we’ve let go of a lot, but I’m not ready yet to let go of that).
And when I see those grocery lists in his handwriting on the fridge, I feel his presence still, and his preferences, and remember him through the details. Daddy, yes, we’ll get you your cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide! It’s on its way, never mind and don’t worry.
Now go practice your piano, go play that jazz.
Daddy was flexible and open-hearted about a lot of things, but he had his preferences, like we all do, and trying to meet them as his caregivers, the ultimate calling.
Preferences are references—the way he wanted this but not that. He didn’t want just one beverage with his meal, but a whole lineup of choices: hot chocolate (Swiss Miss), apple juice (Jewel Signature), instant decaf (Nescafé), diet cola (Pepsi or Coke will do).
My sisters and I joke lovingly that his last words to me may have been: “Don’t forget the R.C.”
We didn’t forget the R.C. daddy! We bought a case of it for you.
When that R.C. case arrived on our doorstep, by the way, some of the cans had punctured and dried out—the cans remained in perfect form, just empty now of liquid—and it sort of felt like our daddy had sipped on these colas as he made his cosmic transition.
A magical thinking kind of explanation, to be fair, but one that still makes sense to me and my sisters, who also marveled at how and why this case of cola had arrived with so many empty cans.
Knowing what our people love takes a certain kind of attention that seems to fade if we don’t practice it—noticing the little things, a trope, for sure, but one that binds us like rope from one heart to the other.
I knew when I went to the store to select stuff for my daddy that I was on a mission to deliver his favorites and make him happy—Manischewitz and Kedem, please.
When he could no longer drive, when the victory was getting him onto the porch to perch like a tired king on the block where he’d lived for fifty years, these small but significant requests became my most important quest—to get it right, to make him happy, and of course, to not have to make a return trip to the store.
Same went for takeout orders—our daddy loved menus. He used to study them with glee—and, on occasion, make his orders clear. Polish with mustard, no onion, a side of chili, one tamale, a chocolate shake—daddy! You got it.
Was he supposed to eat all of this fatty goodness? Probably not, but his days had narrowed into such sharp focus—jazz and joy—and without much further ado, we tried to get the man exactly what he wanted—and, being good-natured and generally easy enough to please, meeting the mission always made everyone happy.
To know what our loved ones prefer is a superpower of sorts—knowing, itself, is a kind of love, and getting it, another. And it’s not just that the thing appears in real life, but the way it shows up and how.
I wish I could say I was pretty good at noting these small preferences that make my people happy. Most of the time, I try to take note. But I haven’t always been this way. I remember watching those newlyweds game shows where the host quizzes one person about the other’s preferences and think, wow, those are really hard questions, I am not sure what my boyfriend’s last meal would be!
But as I’ve gotten older, I’m learning that preferences reveal themselves through proximity.
There’s a lot of talk right now about the burden of caregiving for our elders, a lot of lament about how all this care falls on women, a lot of rage about why this country does so little to make it possible to give our elders the care they deserve after having worked so hard for so long. All of this is true and needs a major reset—I’m all for this.
I also want to talk about how caring for my daddy as he declined was the greatest honor and gift. I realized—only after he made his cosmic transition—that helping him die was part of him raising me. That when we care for our parents, we’re letting them parent us in this final act, allowing them to teach us what death looks like from the inside out.
Death lives inside the circle of life. That’s an idea I heard recently somewhere online and it’s stuck with me, the notion that death and dying are not separate or outside of life but within it.
Knowing what my daddy wanted and needed in his dying days helped me learn how to live better and with more love, and I’m grateful, even if those years with him were sometimes difficult and exasperating, and not at all what I expected.
Not everyone gets this experience—the decision to care for our aging parents is fraught with questions about capacity and commitment—I would never begin to assume that what worked for me and my sisters would apply to anyone else.
I’m still in the house where my daddy died, where we all lived as kids, where he spent his final years as a retired school teacher, ESL instructor, and infinite jazz man. There are traces of him everywhere—we still have a can of R.C. out for him, and a Snickers, in case he comes to visit. And I still see his Nutella jar in the cupboard (don’t judge me; we’ve let go of a lot, but I’m not ready yet to let go of that).
And when I see those grocery lists in his handwriting on the fridge, I feel his presence still, and his preferences, and remember him through the details. Daddy, yes, we’ll get you your cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide! It’s on its way, never mind and don’t worry.
Now go practice your piano, go play that jazz.
