Moving on Autopilot

A box of pasta. A jar of tomato sauce. Two chicken cutlets from the freezer. Something I must have made for us hundreds of times. Something I could make with my body on autopilot. I knew I wouldn't be able to make anything more complicated. For a second, I thought about getting takeout, but the thought of having to interact with another person right now made me want to lock myself in the basement and never come out. And I knew I couldn't eat nothing. My parents were flying from across the country to see me, and I didn't want to make them more concerned for me than they already were. So this would have to do.

Preheat the oven. Salt the water. Set it to boil. I wasn't even sure if I was hungry. I knew that I should be. All I had to eat today was some graham crackers and ginger ale that the nurse brought me. By all means, I should be starving, but for the life of me, I couldn't tell what this feeling was. My body just felt bad in a way I'd never felt before, and I knew I would be feeling for a while. Something inside of me clung to the sensation. It was unignorable proof to myself of what was happening. Proof of the magnitude, and what this meant for me and my life. Once the feeling faded, I knew it wouldn't come back, and that feeling of magnitude would fade. I wasn't ready to let that happen, not yet. If that meant letting this pain fester inside me, so be it.

The oven beeps. Chicken goes in. I really needed to clean the stovetop. The sink was full of dishes. There was a load of laundry in the washer that had been sitting there for almost a full day at this point. I needed to take out the trash. I knew that no one who cared enough about me to check in would be brave enough to judge me out loud if I let things pile up. Not my parents, my sister, my neighbors, my coworkers. I could let my refuse litter every surface. Lie in bed and let my body decay. Let dinner burn and starve myself to the bone. I also knew that none of those things would make me feel better. I was going to feel terrible either way, but at least I could feel terrible with a full belly and a clean house.

The water boils. Pasta goes in. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I looked normal. If someone saw me, they would have thought that day was just like any other day for me. I hadn't even cried yet. I've always been a rational person. It's something I prided myself on. Always in control of myself. Never too angry or scared to listen. To understand. In that moment, I was furious in a way that I knew was very irrational. I was angry at the world for not stopping to let me breathe, and wished I could tear it in half with my bare hands. I was angry at myself for being too weak to do it.

Heat the sauce in a saucepan. More sensibly, I was angry that I didn't spend more time preparing myself for this. After that doctor's visit, I was smart enough not to hope for a miracle. So why, when he said "3 to 6 months", was I stupid enough to plan for 6 and not 3? Why didn't I do more sooner? Could I have saved myself some of this pain? There were a number of books people had told me to get. Doctors. Friends. Family. I truly did mean to get them. I trusted them when they said they would help. There were just so many other things to focus on. Things I thought were more important. Was it to late to get them? Could they still help?

Pasta is al dente. Strain. I knew something like this would happen to me eventually. No one went through life without grief or tragedy. I knew this, and yet I was arrogant enough to think I had more time. To think ignoring the inevitable would save me somehow. If I really wanted to save myself from this pain, I should have been preparing for years. Decades even. Now look at me. The pain was here, and it was too late to make it stop. Not unless-

The oven dings. Take the chicken out of the oven. I burned my thumb on the baking sheet, and didn't bother running it under the sink. I had enough sense to realize I was spiraling. I'm not suicidal, and never had been, but in that moment, I was afraid of what my suffering mind might make my body do. I knew I only had to wait it out, and that eventually the pain would fade. I would feel better. That thought didn't comfort me at all. I forced myself to stop. To put myself in a haze. To think of nothing. That was the closest I could manage to get to feeling better that night.

Plate the food. Bring it to the table. "Here you go. Let me know if it's any good." Sit down. I took a bite. It tasted like nothing. Might as well have just eaten the pasta plain. It wasn't until I took three more bites that I realized I had said something. I looked up. There was a second plate of pasta across from me. Where he usually sat. I hadn't even noticed I had made two plates. My next instinct was to ask him if he had realized what I'd done. Ask him why he let me make so much food when he wasn't here to eat it. I stopped myself. I think if I had said it out loud, without hearing him laugh in response, it would have broken me completely.

Finish dinner. Bandage my thumb. Load the dishwasher. Wipe down the stovetop. Do the laundry. Go to bed. Cry.