Everyone loves a good soup. Growing up in my family, we had what Mom would call “hearty soups.” Hearty soups would always include vegetables that were cut into large pieces instead of being diced.
Soup filled our bellies and our souls. Laughter was big in my house and Mom was the funniest. Most of those who met her thought she should have written a book or done stand-up comedy. Humor was always present, even in the direst of times.
In 2004, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. He was 69 years old and had worked in a papermill for 42 years. Most of his adult life was spent in an industry that didn’t have OSHA regulations, so the diagnosis wasn’t unexpected, but it was certainly still surprising.
Mom and Dad both had wills; they had plans with a living will and they each had their own DNR wishes.
Dad was sick about 4 months before he even asked, “Is it cancer?”
Dad was coughing daily, and he wasn’t getting better. The doctor requested we get hospice to come to the home and help my parents during this time. They decided to get Mom and Dad a twin bed each so at least they could be in the same room together.
One morning my mom called me and said, “Your father was up all night with his horror stories.” “What horror stories?” I asked.
She said that he was talking about dead people at the end of his bed, and she told him to stop it because she didn’t like horror. I said “Mom, the poor guy has lung cancer; his oxygen must have dipped really low.” She replied. “I don’t like horror.”
Even in Dad’s darkest hours, Mom is still running a comedy show—a dark one but comedic just the same.
I built my home right next to my parents, so I walked over to chat with Dad, and he told me that he’d had a bad night. I talked with him a bit and then Mom said lunch was ready for them. I told them that I would take some laundry for them and bring it back later that day.
So, I went home and had lunch with my son, who was home during school vacation. After we ate, I decided to work on a painting project since it was a nice April day outside. Next thing I know, my mom is screaming to me to come over; my father had fallen.
When I got there, she was in the kitchen and said “Dad died. He fell and hit his head, and he’s on the bedroom floor.” I went to the bedroom and there he was. Sadly, he had passed.
I had never had to deal with someone dying at home before, so I asked “What do we do? Call 911?” Mom said yes and so I did. The paramedics came and saw that Dad had a DNR due to his condition, and they comforted us and contacted the coroner.
Soon, a police officer was at the door. He came to see what was happening and he asked questions. I told him that my dad was sick; he had lung cancer. I showed him the DNR, and then it happened. Mom declared “Oh, I hope it wasn’t the survival soup!”
“Survival soup?” The officer asked and reached for a pad of paper and a pen. Mom starts to rattle off ingredients, “Oh, its chicken broth, carrots, celery…”
The officer looked up and said, “It’s a soup?” Mom said, “Yes, it’s a soup. It’s just whatever you have in the kitchen for ingredients. Survival soup!”
I said, “I am so sorry, but yes, it is only soup. There is no foul play here,” and I chuckled because that is just the atmosphere that I was brought up in, and it only made sense for Dad’s last day be humorous.
For years, when Mom made survival soup I would joke that I wasn’t sure I wanted any, since I knew what happened to the last guy who ate it.
I’m forever grateful for the gift of humor as it has been the one thing that always helps me through the toughest of times.
