Casserole, pt. 1
“Tupperware’s innovative casserole pan with lid will change what you think is possible in the kitchen. ”
My mother-in-law is in the hospital. She had heart bypass surgery. No, she is not doing well, but that is not what this piece is about.
This piece is about me.
And the selfishness of death. Not to say that anyone is dying now, but at some point in the next 30 to 50 years, someone will. And I don’t like it.
While our respective spouses are at the hospital with their mother, my sister-in-law invited the kids and me over to hang out, take comfort—eat, drink, and be distracted. I was keen on it—it is a good idea to find some company on a cold and anxious day. I want company. But the kids, they're not so interested.
I say to Bea, “We could go over and make cookies. You like making cookies.” And she responds, “But I don’t need cookies.” To which I say, “Does anyone ever need cookies? The whole point of cookies is the normalcy of cookies—the routine and the sugar of cookies. The regularity of cookies. There is no such thing as required cookies or medical-grade cookies or cookies of necessity.” Though that would be a good name for a bakery.
Cookies are a generosity, but dying is a selfish act. Dying is all about me, regardless of who me is.
The dying person, one who has the fortune or misfortune of the process, is thinking only of themselves—their body, their soul, their legacy. A few mundanities creep in—the roast still in the freezer, the milk that is going to spoil, the laundry moldering in the washing machine. The people not dying are thinking only of themselves and their vacations and their schedules and their plans: You can’t die because it will inconvenience me. If you die, I will kill you. In other words, “If you die, how will I enjoy my vacation without you?” or “Your dying is the worst of the worst things that you could do to me.” I would rather you didn't do it.
The only thing worse than getting old is not getting old.
I thought I coined that. At least I said it before I heard anyone else say it. But when I Googled it, I found out Jay Z sang it and, before him, the novelist and poet, Iceberg Slim wrote it. It’s insightful, but it’s obvious.
Show up, shut up, and bring a casserole.
I didn’t coin that. My sister’s friend and former boss Jennifer did. It’s insightful, and when I Googled it, no one else had said it.
And it’s really what you need to know about death: it happens and, even when it messes up your schedule, you need to be there for it.
Not that I want to be.
Honestly, no one I know dies. I’ve gone to like, maybe, five or six funerals ever.
When I was in kindergarten, the old man across the street died, and we went to his funeral. It was an open casket. I think I walked by it just to look at the body 100 times. It was weird.
My cousin died of cancer when I was in college, but I didn’t show up for that one—she was too young, and I was too scared.
20 years later my aunt and uncle, her parents, died within months of each other. My stepfather-in-law died about 15 years ago. My former boss had a heart attack in the shower while getting ready for work. That was over 10 years ago. He’d stopped by the office on the Friday before and just sat and chatted with us. He hadn’t done that in years. And on Monday he died. I went to those funerals.
There have been a scattering of funerals for grandparents of friends and parents of neighbors, but no one I really know dies.
But I know, eventually, they will. When I was a child, perhaps somewhere around the time of the funeral of the old man across the street, I remember lying in bed thinking about the fact that my mother, someday, would die. At the time, I couldn’t bear the thought. It was impossible that I could survive such an event though I knew it would happen—but it hasn’t happened.
Now, two-thirds of a lifetime later, I might have to start showing up. But, as I mentioned, it doesn’t really fit in my schedule.
And in our culture of non-participation—the unnecessity of getting dressed and disdain for leaving the house, we ain't got time for that. It’s not dying that is selfish, it’s living. It’s our refusal to let go of anything we have, to allow other people to drive our actions, to do things we do not want to do.
I have other priorities. I like to talk. I hate casserole.
Someday, I’ll have to make the casserole that I do not like and do not want to eat. And I will have to teach my daughter about the casserole. But not now, I’m busy. My mother-in-law is not dead. She’s not even dying. She’s just in the hospital not thinking of any of us. And my daughter is in the kitchen baking cookies of utmost necessity.
