Grief Imploded in the Cereal Aisle

It was the first grocery trip I dared alone as the mom of the latest dead teen in our little community.

After Joseph’s death, I relied heavily on the friends who brought us meals or offered to pick up groceries for us. I took advantage of that as long as I possibly could.

Once the casseroles stopped arriving, I did as much of our shopping as possible online. Pay twice as much? At that time, it didn’t matter to this otherwise thrifty shopper. Won’t arrive for five days? Who cares! What are a few more days of Burger King dinners?!?

When we needed meat, milk, or produce, my husband and I shopped together late at night, running in for an item or two and then dashing back out just as quickly, avoiding the perceived gawks of those in our little community. But the time came that I had to go grocery shopping for the sake of my two living sons.

I dreaded it.

I didn’t want to run into mere acquaintances, knowing I could not handle looks of pity or making small talk. Nor did I want one more person to pat me on the shoulder and utter, “If there’s anything I can do …”

On a mission, I entered the door, grabbed a cart, and fixated my eyes on the food to avoid eye contact with anyone who might judge my son or see me as her newest self-help case.

I survived the produce department, tossing random salad ingredients into my cart without incident – or worse – conversation. The next few aisles went just as well.

But about halfway into my trip, I noticed a former neighbor at the meat counter, so I lingered by the crackers until he left, terrified of what might spew out of my mouth if he dared ask, “So how are you – really?”

I pushed my cart down the cereal aisle and grabbed a box of Raisin Bran, an item my youngest added to my list. And then I spotted it – the cereal my seventeen-year-old dead son used to eat religiously: Cream of Rice.

It was positioned where it had always been, on the top shelf, next to the Cream of Wheat. This time, however, it caught me off guard, and I burst into tears, lamenting my son. The panic attack that ensued debilitated me.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, I grieved that Cream of Rice would never be on my weekly shopping list again. There was a battle raging within me. Should I go home and throw away the box of Cream of Rice that was in my pantry? Would that be throwing Joseph away, too? That was all too much for my mind and body to handle just weeks after putting my eldest in his deathbed. I lost it.

I abandoned my full cart in the middle of the aisle, fled out the door, jumped into my van, pressed my face into the steering wheel, and sobbed uncontrollably.

For the next half hour, I sat utterly undone in the Food Lion parking lot, purging a little bit of my grief. I missed my boy so badly that my body shook. I was convinced I was having a heart attack.

In those first early raw days of grief, the unexpected in the ordinary days often caused tidal waves of grief for me without so much as a moment’s notice. Hearing a song, seeing one of his favorite sports teams on TV, or seeing a box of cereal would cause grief to erupt within me.

I know now that is exactly where I needed to be. We must take time to grieve. No rhyme or reason exists for when, where, or how grief will manifest. But when it does, we must let it happen.

Now, all these years later, seeing Cream of Rice is bittersweet. On occasion, I get weepy-eyed. Most of the time, I smile, remembering my long, lanky teen and the items that used to find their way into my grocery cart, especially for him.

We live near that same Food Lion and shop there regularly. Now and then, I sit in that very same parking spot, remembering the day my grief imploded in the cereal aisle. But now I sit and pray for other parents walking this unwanted journey. And I ask God to use my grief and to heal me a little more.

A personal note …

Grieving Friend,

Where did your grief implode? How are you dealing with it now? 

Press on, friend. With God, you can do this.

Shelley