To the woman who sent me a Costco haul the day after my kid died
This is woman's work.
Dear Thoughtful Lady,
You heard my kid died and you sprang into action.
I’m not sure how you heard — probably from my husband posting his sadness on Facebook before I could even tell my own dad.
I imagine you’re the admin arm of that male-centric organization my husband worked with.
The woman who quietly carries the weight of deciding what kind of comfort can be bought and sent from another country.
When you heard that tragedy had hit the family of a man you’d come to like so much — through his entertaining training sessions and hilarious emails — what made you decide that flowers weren’t enough?
What do you know, what have you seen, that gave you the energy to compile an order so elite in its practicality that my German genes felt comforted at a soul level?
When I tell this story, I still squeal with delight at the guts it took to send such a gift.
I remember exactly zero details of the meals that were sent in the days after Chloe’s death.
I know that Janice brought soup in a yogurt container. I think it was good?
An edible arrangement tried to take up space in the fridge. I had to work hard to pawn that off piece by piece.
Okay — I now remember Jennifer’s pizza delivery. That actually cheered me up for a moment.
I also know there were those who showed up empty-handed and required tea and comfort.
But you! Costco hauler!
Woman, I fucking appreciate you.
You got shit done like a Southern hospitality prize-winner.
You nailed it for me.
I can name every single thing that was dropped off by that tentative Instacart worker.
He rang the bell that afternoon and I must have looked a fright.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. It was only 18 hours after Chloe died.
We’d been on the road since 3 a.m. to pick up our other daughter. Jason’s family was in the living room. We were flip-flopping between rehashing Chloe’s last moments, scrolling through social media for clues like where her passenger’s car had been left (ummm… it turned up at the liquor store), and sitting silently, staring out the window.
I opened the door wondering who could have the balls to bring condolences in person so soon — or maybe it was a salesperson I could shock into fleeing.
I was already looking for an outlet for my shock in the form of socially unacceptable words.
Telling strangers “my kid just died” would become a way I protected my peace while reaching out for condolence energy.
The banana boxes of groceries had already started to pile up on the front steps before I even opened the door.
The guy handed me a slip of paper to confirm the delivery, and I must have looked stricken.
He had the wrong address, surely.
My shock probably came off as rude.
Then, glancing down, I recognized the fixings of a post-funeral home reception.
Paper plates. Coffee. Cups. Plastic cutlery.
Napkins. Tea. Giant frozen lasagnas.
Lady, this was a true gift.
Dish soap. Sponges. Garbage bags.
I remember thinking, I won’t have to go to Costco for a year.
I felt held.
Thank God for you, woman, because going in public instantly became excruciating —
like walking into a salty sea with hundreds of scratched-open mosquito bites.
You are the best.
Love,
Tanja
P.S.
Last month I took a deep breath and used up the last of the blue Dawn dish soap.
That smell has snuggled me at the sink for two and a half years.
The box of garbage bags recently spit out its last white, crinkled soldier.
They’ll probably be using those paper plates for my own funeral. I’d have to be dead for paper plates to be used at my house.
Cheers, girl.
I’m so glad that people showed up for you and your family. It’s sort of dizzying to think you had the presence of mind to keep track of any of the small kindnesses given the circumstances, never mind write with gratitude about your big-box delivery.
I did something similar twice and got mixed responses. The first time was when my kid’s friend had a death in the family. Her folks were off making arrangements and told my kid their cupboard was a bit bare. (To me, that seemed like a natural state of things when there’s a loss in the family-who is going to the grocery store?) So the kids and I ran out and got a few premade items and a bunch of staples-coffee, bread, milk, etc.
I would have preferred to just leave the groceries on their front porch anomalously, but that kid was hungry and saw us arrive. Later on the mom thanked me, but I had the feeling that she viewed it as affront to her mothering.
The second time I did it landed pretty much the same way. A family lost their relatively young father- my kids and theirs did sleep overs and karate together. I tried to sneak the food onto their front porch, but was caught by a relative who insisted on calling the young widow out to acknowledge us. It felt wrong- I had no intention of intruding. I didn’t want thanks-it’s not my way.
Each time I was propelled to drop off groceries to grieving families because I remembered how queer it was to go shopping directly after my mother-in-law passed away. Our world had been shattered and the cupboard was also bare- while relatives busied themselves with arrangements, I volunteered to do the shopping, but looking at labels, the glare of the store lights and all those shoppers going about their mundane tasks-it felt surreal. I wanted to escape, leaving the cart behind to go out into the sun and air.
Reading about your experience made me feel better about the gestures I made. For years I felt like I’d done something wrong. It seemed like my motivations were somehow perverted in the doing- in truth, my heart just goes out to people at such times, their grief taps into my grief and I want to do anything to lessen the burden of it, but quietly without intrusion.
I’m glad you found some solace from your friend’s thoughtful purchases. People often flounder in the face of someone else’s loss- they send the big fruit bouquets, make food, etc., but I think, ultimately, they just want people to know that they are seen, that their grief is seen, however clumsily.
Sorry for the lengthy response- I wanted to thank you for what you’ve written. I needed to hear it. There aren’t words enough, but I’m sorry for your loss and wish you all good things.
This had me in tears thinking of the heaps of kindness my friends and coworkers organized for my wife, daughter, and me by organizing a food train to keep us going after my son’s death. None of us was doing any shopping or cooking.