Nourish the Soul

It is late and you are exhausted beyond words. Yes, physically you are drained, but it is a type of tired that lives in every cell of your body. You feel the pressure of this intangible weight pushing in on you from every side. Your brain is a fog, struggling to keep information straight, and though it betrays you often, you just cross your fingers and hope that you are able to stay on top of the things that are really important; knowing full well that you are already falling short with most of what's on your plate.

The evenings are the hardest. You have been on the go all day and now you need to wash dishes and fold laundry and take out garbage. There are pets and cleaning and classes to drive back and forth to .... and then there are the little people who then need baths and story times and cuddles. You have to carry on with a false guise of control, ensuring that your babies look up to you and see safety and security; something that mirrors the normal. And of course you know all of that went out the window, but you pretend. And the very act of this pretense is in itself exhausting.

When death arrives decades before you expect it, and it uninvitedly creeps into your home on a Saturday morning, you aren't ready in any way. It is always a challenge to accept loss, but when you have no warning it seems all the more cruel. No last words or shared moments. No looking into eyes one last time, no preparing for a new life you never wanted to even consider was a possibility. You have to become two parents overnight. You have to carry on and do everything, and then more, all while being steady as a rock in order for your children to have something to anchor themselves to. And when you finally finish the herculean task of getting through just one day, you are left alone in a cold bed that suddenly feels much bigger than it used to, and you give yourself permission to break down, reduced to the puddle of emotions you have kept at bay all day. It must be some time between heaving sobs and endless thoughts that you drifted off only to have the harsh reality of your situation hit you with just as much force as you open your eyes the next morning. Looking towards an empty pillow you remember that this is your life now. So you force yourself to get up and do it all over again. Every day.

There is a thing that happens to people when they are on the periphery of this sort of loss. They don't really know what to do or what to say or how to help. And from a place of deep love and compassion, not quite knowing how to make anything better.....they decide to make you food. It is a rallying that is familiar and comforting. A task people know about that is approachable. So cook and bake they do. And before you knew it there was a calendar created by an extended network of friends, family, work acquaintances, people from the playground, and even people you have never met but who've heard the story and want to help. They want to show love and kindness in the only way they know how.

For six months I did not cook dinner. Being a private person who struggles to ask for help, information was quietly distributed about our food preferences; vegetarian vs meat, kid friendly food ideas, favourite dishes, snack and dessert options. And like magic, every evening between 5:00 and 6:00 a dinner would appear on my front doorstep. No knocks or calls or chit chat. It was left without a word so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable. Some days there were special treats for the kids or something for their breakfast the next morning. Sometimes there were toys or books. Fresh muffins and cookies. A dinner for tonight and an extra one to pop in the freezer for another day. Fresh flowers. A bottle of wine.

And so this endless train of food arrived like clockwork each evening, and it was a truly beautiful thing to witness. It allowed me to take one thing off my list each day. It made things just a little more manageable. And there was a deep gratitude in the knowledge that people had taken time from their busy lives, had thought about us and what we were going through, and cared enough to drive to our house when they too had busy schedules. Knowing that a community came together to care for us in a shared embrace is something I still think about almost every day.

It wasn't the only time in my life that this outpouring has happened. Many years later I had a health issue that had me in surgery and off work for a year.....the food began to arrive. Then many years after that my current partner was diagnosed with terminal cancer.....the dinners were delivered. And I have always tried to repay in kind at every opportunity I can. When I hear of a family struggling, a baby, an illness or loss....my first thought is to go to my kitchen and bake bread, chop vegetables for a pot of soup, make a lasagna. Anything that makes someone's life a little bit easier, even if it is just for one or two hours. It is an act that reminds one of community and knowing that none of us are alone, even when it feels like we are.