An ounce of Soup

Living in the Hospital

An Ounce of Soup 

written by Susan Fusco-Fazio

On our nights off from the hospital, one time a week, either Paul or I would go home to make the chicken soup broth that Laura requested. This was one of the only things she could even think of putting to her lips besides some sips of water.

After my long and tiring drive home, I stood in line at Stop and Shop wondering if anyone could see on my face that I was living in some kind of Hell, and if anyone else in that line was in one as well. You never really know who is going through the astronomical kind of life altering events that our family had become accustomed to, when you are shopping in a grocery store and causally glancing at the faces in line or when you are walking down each aisle. They are surely among us each time we shop. Maybe, their pain was as well hidden as mine was, I imagined as I waited my turn to swipe my debit card while being abruptly snapped out of my thoughts.

“Paper or plastic?” I heard the cashier’s voice. 

“Paper,” I retorted slightly startled.

I reread the list of items Laura had dictated to me to bring back to the hospital, hoping I didn’t forget anything. 

      The brown paper grocery bags would become stacked in the corner of Laura’s room, either on the floor below or on the wide and roomy sill of the large window that faced the back courtyard parking lot of Boston Children’s Hospital.  On my return every other day to the hospital room, I had come to expect that the room would be tidied up and the paper bags put in perfect order by Laura’s Dad who took solace in sorting and fixing the stuff in her room in an orderly fashion while taking refuge in what he deemed to be his OCD, more affectionately named rather than a true diagnostic reality. It was how he was able to put some order into the chaos of our daily lives. I on the other hand liked the haphazardness of the items piled on top of one another on the window sill; the stuffed animals, books, drawing materials, well meaning gifts and empty washed Tupperware containers brought by visitors, which could be seen from the chair I usually sat in near the bed. The piles reminded me of what it was like in Laura’s messy and full of stuff bedroom or like a pile of dishes and school bags on the kitchen counter at our home in Braintree. It made me feel secure and safe when I sat among the colorful items, the reminders of our life before and that people still cared. I was always a bit jolted and somewhat annoyed to see that Paul had changed everything around, that many things were gone, either packed up or tossed out. I did not usually have the mindset or energy to really care or to object out loud except when it came to some of the daily needed items. I would later bark out to Paul, where did you put this or where did that go? Then I would wait for him to rummage through the bags, to see him shake his head and hear his reply, I don't know, or here it is!
It really didn't matter all that much. What really mattered was not the well ordered bags on the sill or the missing objects, but the single hand held paper bag that I carried into the hospital room that morning which carried a new box of ginger tea and the still warm homemade chicken soup that I had lovingly prepared that morning most likely with a few of my own tears having made their way into the soup as it boiled. For you see, Laura could not eat at this time. She was able to tolerate only a few sips of ginger tea or a mere once of broth in a plastic ounce cup, that she preferred to sip from, the ones the nurses supplied her with for measuring Laura’s intake of liquids.

“ Mommy," Laura said as she saw me enter the room, “did you bring me my soup?”

  “Of course!” I said warmly as I made my way across the room with the bag in one hand, lifting the other hand to gently rub her head while reaching over to kiss her softly on the cheek. 

“Daddy, can you warm it up, lukewarm only and put it in an ounce cup,” she directed, as Laura always did. Laura knew just what she wanted.

Even though she knew she would most likely be sick later and not even be able to hold down the broth, she lifted the clear plastic cup to her lips, took one sip, closed her eyes and made the smallest smile with such effort and hummed the famed Laura “ummmm. Mommy, it taste’s so good.”