I Can Make Soup

It was a hot August afternoon when we first heard the word hospice.

Tears pouring into my face mask, holding my husband's hand, numbly leaving the hospital. Hospice. Our whole world was irrevocably changed.

We got into the car, crying and confused, passing each other tissues trying to understand what this meant.

It was his mother, 59, who'd been fighting cancer for the last year. 

But we didn't know. We didn't know hospice would be the answer at the end of this path. We didn't know the options were depleted and prayers for healing were voided.

The next few weeks were surreal, sad, and full of grieving many things.

When preparing for my mother-in-law to be moved back into her home for hospice care, it was a surprise to learn what our responsibilities as family members, now caretakers, would be. My husband and father-in-law quietly nodded, eyes glazed over, as instructions on medications were given. I took notes, tried to come up with questions for the social worker, because that was something helpful, right? We were all exhausted and navigating a horrifying territory we were forced to enter.

"I can make soup."

It was all I could think to offer as we absorbed this new reality. I'm not a great cook but throughout her stay in the hospital I would bring her homemade roasted tomato soup, just 5 ingredients or so, and that made her happy. 

The last voicemail I have from her is a groggy thank you message for the soup and how good it tasted.

The first time taking the lead in her kitchen, her favorite domain, her kingdom- I made her soup one last time.

In the quiet before the medical team brought her in, before friends came to visit, before the worst days of our lives- I sliced and layer tomatoes off the vine, with yellow onions, and chopped garlic. I poured on olive oil, salt and pepper and let the mix melt down in the oven.

I would go on to do many things I didn't think I would be capable of in the coming days. But in the moment when I felt completely useless, I held onto the one small thing I knew would nourish others, and in turn nourished myself.

As the soup finished boiling on the stove, I felt a sense of purpose, and connection, and maybe for the first time truly in my 33 years, I felt like an adult.

Grief and death are a strange thing to embrace. Chaos and calm all at once. Nothing you can do to change the situation, but everything feels slightly wrong to do-

Can we laugh? Should we eat? Talking or no talking? Sympathy or no sympathy? Is there room for anger? Who's in charge?

I found that in moments like these, that feel overwhelming and wildly painful, you just do what you can to offer up something genuine.

For me, it was soup. For others it was keeping the flowers fresh in her room. For another it was painting her nails and brushing her hair as she slept. Things that seem almost too small to count, maybe even silly to do given the circumstances, actually ended up being the pieces I remember and appreciate the most.