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One afternoon A few months before my mother died of colon cancer, I was crowded in her bed, lying side by side with her and my aunt, and my 8-month-old daughter played between them. I took out my cell phone and recorded the time the two of them spoke.
“Since childhood, what do you remember?” I asked. The two sisters glanced sideways at each other and began to giggle. Amidst the bursts of laughter, they recounted the time when my mother was usually drunk the night before the curfew when she was a teenager when she was a normal teenager. She needed my aunt’s help to enter the house when she was in a state of obsession Won’t wake up. Parents and other siblings. This story is very easy and interesting, I have heard it before, but I hang on every word, as if the secret of life has been solved before my eyes. In moments of laughter and relaxation, it is easy for us to forget that the one lying in bed with us is a fatal disease. For three years, this recording has not been moved on my mobile phone. I can call my host when and if I am ready.
In January of this year, I was in the shelter for 10 months, and one year after the second child was born, I decided to hire a nutritionist. I need help. I like sugar, which makes my A1C levels soar to near pre-diabetic levels. I also like to stay up late when the house is quiet to deal with all the podcasts, movies and TV series that I can’t adapt to. The love of these twins does not love me, and I realized that feeling tired and foggy most mornings is the opposite of treating myself.
The first thing my new nutritionist Peta-Gaye Williams guided me was to schedule meals and bedtime on my smartphone. I learned about chicken and eggs for sleep and nutrition: My poor sleep habits fuel my food choices, and food choices fuel my sleep habits. Williams told me: “Setting an alarm clock for meals and sleep is like you are going to date yourself.” I began to follow these instructions faithfully, a little skeptical, because I have never been satisfied with self-accountability. Scrolling through my app to find the alarm tone I will use, I came across files from my mother and aunt, telling stories of drunken nightlife. For three years, the recording has remained unchanged on my mobile phone, and I was shocked when I realized that I could insert it into my calendar instead of an alarm clock as a reminder of breakfast, lunch, dinner and bedtime.
After two months of practice, this recording still caught me off guard. When I hear my mother and aunt laughing in a corner of the house, I will work at the desk, change diapers or work in the bathroom. I listened to their voices, listened to the fire, and as the story unfolded, love gathered from their mouths and found my mobile phone. Once they find the phone and feel the subtle vibrations of their palms when they speak, I go to the refrigerator to cook, or go to bed at my ridiculously pre-set time-this time is obviously not so ridiculous, because I found myself falling asleep. After putting my head on the pillow for a few minutes.
When the breakfast alarm went off, the story began: “Then you call me and I have to let you in…” My aunt said to my mother as I was sitting at the kitchen table eating spinach and eggs. At lunch time, their story has reached the point, because my mother told my aunt to put her finger to her throat because she was too drunk to do it herself. When I ate more vegetables and a fish, I listened to their stomachs laughing. When I reached the dinner alert, my mother and aunt were arguing about the details of what happened afterwards. “No, Mom and Dad never found out.” “Yes, they did.” When my night alarm went off and asked me to climb into bed, the story disappeared. My mother and aunt were arguing about whether my daughter needed Drink water. The recording now is like a song in my memory, which accompanies me throughout my entire process.
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