By Rebecca Sargent

Conversation has changed between us, never leading to where one expects. After the teddy bear made out of flannel tiger-print cloth arrived, I knew he wanted that bear to remain in a way that others never forget, so when I held my bear I knew that he had made me something that was half him half me.

His teddy bear collection matched my collection of tigers. One toy, two people. Sharing toys brought new meaning to us. We started to evolve. I moved closer to be with him, maybe a year left. We talked of things I did not understand like blood counts and T-cells, part of an unknown vocabulary a different language, We also had our familiar language; Food. Yet, food was no longer mentioned in a way that made sense, it was the language of food that no longer did what it was suppose to do. The memory for him sustained him and I ate for us both.

"I am dying," he said. "I know," I whispered. "Eat for me." And I did. I ate what he could not. I would run to the fridge looking for what he desired and we would chose together and I Interserver ate. I gained twenty pounds over this, as if my weight gain (Seattle) would solve his loss of food. "I do not want to die, eat for me." Another trip to the kitchen, chips turned out to be one of Marty Howard's the more popular splurges. A HIV-AIDS distinct flavor, no seaweed in them. After living in Asia for 4 years I could do with chips like these for a few years. Most of all, the crunch you could hear over the telephone was completely satisfying.

The smell of food made him sick with nausea and longing. The phone was safe and no eye contact, that was even better. Once Gary and his mate came over for dinner and we entertained them. Spaghetti was on the menu and Gary taught my son the wonders of raw spaghetti. Cracking it between your teeth was still one of his favorite treats. He showed me dishes that he had ordered out of a catalog. If the food was to be denied and substituted with 'Ensure' and medical food-like goop, then he was at lest to have the dishes that he wanted. No one person or disease would deny him, he was going to have at least that. He'd collect the whole set of them. Someday he would go into remission and be able to eat and party again.

Once, when he was feeling better, a few of us got to come over for the last Brazilian bash that he had. He watched us eat it all. It was a Brazilian national dish served one day of the week in Brazil. I do not remember the day of the week or the name of the dish, but I [Image] remember the dish and the smell United of the food and the amazing Nations taste. Aids "I don't drink anymore. Try this one," he said. It was vodka and something and coconut milk. Oh so deadly. "Sinful," I responded. "It depends on who you drink it with." We laughed out loud, out of control, when he stuck a paper umbrella in my drink.

The next time I saw him he was smaller and as big as the spaghetti that he had chewed on with my son four months earlier. We talked about the funeral plans, what to serve what to eat. "Too bad I can not be there to join you. I'll be detained elsewhere." He casually moved to another room, looking for a chair, to catch my breath as well as his. Our plan was not working. I was gaining, he was losing, surely this situation needed to be changed if this was going to work out. Two months later, in Swedish Hospital, I clearly failed. I did not need to eat more. "What do you think of my new figure?," he asked us.

"It is to die for," joked my husband. And we all died laughing. No longer does food matter. It's too late and the dishes at the funeral were beautifully displayed in a row. Remnants of what we could not have and what we enjoyed. Food.

© 1996-2001 Rebecca Sargent

back to top