My friend, Claire is made of titanium—she is incredibly light weight, yet incredibly strong. In her early forties, she has beaten breast cancer twice but has had recurring problems with the healing from her last surgery.
Yesterday, she had surgery on her boob without any anaesthesia or painkiller of any sort then drove herself home from the hospital. Allow me to reiterate for myself as well as you—she walked into the hospital, changed into a surgical gown, was wheeled into an operating theatre (room), they cut open and stitched closed her boob (with not even a local anaesthetic), then she got into her car and drove herself home.
I’m not making this up.
I called her today to see how her doctor’s appointment went and she related the story to me—completely matter-of-fact like, without even a hint of bravado or martyrdom.
Standing there with the phone to my ear and my mouth wide open, I just could not get my mind around this. I couldn’t find words to piece together. I finally spilled out, ‘What type of soup should I bring over?’
‘You don’t have to do that. Really,’ she said.
‘Claire, you weigh about 70 pounds soaking wet—you WILL eat the soup I bring to you. Now what type of soup shall I make?’
She exhaled. ‘Well, I am anaemic. I should probably eat something with meat in it.’
‘How about beef barley soup?’ I asked.
‘That sounds good.’
I rarely know the right thing to say. So I cook in times of great happiness or distress and hope that the food will speak for me. This soup is nothing fancy— it is just satisfying and comforting, maybe even somewhat restorative for my titanium friend.