Tear Soup

Eva is obviously so confused. She knows she's sad, she knows I'm sad, and she knows that she really wishes she could just see her Dad. Where has he gone? None of the answers that I've been providing really make any kind of sense to her, and I haven't stumbled upon the one that could. Stumbled. That's the right word. It seems that I'm walking along this untraveled road, blindfolded, with both of my arms outstretched trying to avoid running into anything too hard or too fast. I'm taking little baby steps for fear of walking right into a big ditch, or for fear of stepping on, over, or into anything that I wouldn't want to. Occasionally I stumble upon something that I need or that aids me in my blind journey. I wish I could stumble on to something that would help Eva. Today we were driving on State Street on our way home from running errands. We were stopped at a red light, and were sitting beside a gas station undergoing rennovations, or whatever you might call it. A huge dump truck was backing into the station and was sitting across all three lanes of traffic which resulted in us sitting for a bit and watching it back in. This was our conversation, Eva and I.

Eva: Whas dat?

Mom: A big big truck.

Eva: Maybe Daddy's in there.

Mom: Daddy's not in there, Eva. Remember Daddy died?

Eva: Where he go?

Mom: Daddy is with Jesus in Heaven.

Eva: I wanna go with dem dare, too.

Mom: Me too, Eva...Me too.

It must just be such confusion inside her little self. And as much as I want to resolve that confusion, I'm also extremely terrified that she'll just someday be a girl who lost her Dad and doesn't really have any memories of him. I've heard of kids like that. They pretty much grow up and live their whole lives without a Dad. I hate that she'll be one of them. I have to do as much as I can to make him a real person to her, even if he's not here.

I was talking to one of Naki's brothers this morning and he mentioned that he was going to go up to the cemetary and clean off the dead flowers. It occurred to me after our conversation was over that I hadn't been there much since he'd died. And I hadn't really felt like being there. Was there something wrong with me that I hadn't craved to be there? I would've thought before this had happened to me that if someone close to me had died I would have wanted to visit their grave as much as possible. So now that it is happening to me, why don't I go there very much? Do my girls want to be there and because I haven't been going have I been taking an experience away from them? We have been twice, but is that enough? Questions just kept circling around in my head until I discovered the answer. For me the concept of going to the grave of a loved one is because you miss them so much and you want to be near them. I don't crave being there because I don't feel close to him there. It's a beautiful place, but he isn't there. Not really. He's here...in this house. In my kitchen, where we'd always bump into each other as we were fixing two separate meals at the same time because we'd come to an agreement that if I was fixing something he didn't like to eat he'd just fix his own food. He's here sitting at the computer working on homework or just surfing the internet looking for the next best deal on Ebay. He's here laying on the floor in the living room with his feet propped up on the couch trying to catch a quick nap until a girlie lands on his chest catching him unaware. He's here in the basement singing along to the Comcast On Demand Karaoke. He's here in our bedroom, sitting on the couch with one leg bent and the other outstretched over the end because he was too big for the couch but never complained about it, falling asleep with his head and neck in a gosh-awful uncomfortable position just like he did the night he died. He's here in the bathroom bathing one of the babies. He's here in the living room teaching the girls how to punch a boy. He's here. Not there. So no, I don't feel bad about not being there more often. But I do need to make sure the girls can get there as often as they'd like.

I get frustrated with myself sometimes because it doesn't matter what I see, hear, say, feel, it all connects to him and his absense. For example, this morning I was putting the pack of deoderant I bought at Costco away in my bathroom. Even seeing those 5 sticks of deoderant, the thought came to me, "I wonder how I'll feel about all of this after I've used up all of those deoderants. I hope that by then I will feel some kind of happiness or joy...". Deoderant, people! I mean, really. Is there a time where my every thought will not be about him? Do I want for my thoughts to not be about him? This whole grieving thing is so conflicted. I'm so conflicted.

I have some additional Mourner's Bill of Rights to include here, in honor of my sister. She and I were talking on the phone tonight about how she's surprised at some of her actions and her feelings. After hearing them, I wasn't surprised by them because I recognized them from my Bill of Rights. They don't just belong to me, you know. Anyone out there grieving can claim them as theirs, too. So here's a few for you, Sis.

Sometimes I find myself with no appetite for food and other times I have an insatiable appetite.
There are a number of Rights that I feel apply to that.

"You may find yourself having a number of physical reactions."

or

"Your grief will show itself in all spheres of your life: psychological, social, spiritual, and physical."

My sister and I also talked about the following right as it relates to motivation to get out and do things like you used to do.

"You may find yourself acting socially in ways that are different from before."

Pretty much, anything goes, in any area of your life. Sometimes I feel like chatting and then sometimes I turn my phone off because the thought of talking to someone or texting them is overwhelming. Lucky for me I have irreplacable friends who are not offended when I don't return their calls promptly or at all and are patient when I don't always text back. Aren't I blessed?

One such friend came by to see me today. Where would I be without her priceless wisdom and understanding love? You see, she too has experienced loss in her life when she lost one of her precious babies a year ago today. She came by to see me and brought with her an amazing children's book, well sort of children's book, titled "Tear Soup, A Recipe for Healing After Loss". It is a story written by Pat Schwiebert and Chuck DeKlyen, illustrated by Taylor Bills. I think it's amazing because it talks about grief, loss and all the accompanying and conflicting emotions through the analogy of cooking. So amazing, in fact, that I'm going to type the text in here. I hope that's okay...don't know the rules about that as far as checking with them first! But it's too amazing to pass up. It's a bit long but well worth it. I wish you could see the pictures because they complete the story. Most of the emotions and feelings in the book I have felt or am feeling, up until the part when she decides she might be ready to eat something other than tear soup.

In the front before you even get to the first page you see a recipe card with the following written on it.

Grandy's Recipe for Tear Soup

Helpful ingredients to consider
*a pot full of tears
*one heart willing to be broken open
*a dash of bitters
*a bunch of good friends
*many handfuls of comfort food
*a lot of patience
*buckets of water to replace the tears
*plenty of exercise
*a variety of helpful reading materials
*enough self care
*season with memories
*optional: one good therapist and/or support group

Directions: Choose the size pot that fits your loss. It's okay to increase pot size if you miscalculated. Combine ingredients. Set the temperature for a moderate heat. Cooking times will vary depending on the ingredients needed. Strong flavors will mellow over time. Stir often. Cook no longer than you need to.

Suggestions:
*be creative
*trust your instincts
*cry when you want to, laugh when you can
*freeze some soup to use as a starter for next time
*keep your own soup making journal so you won't forget

Serves: One

(Starting with the first page...)
There once was an old and somewhat wise woman whom everyone called Grandy. She just suffered a big loss in her life. Pops, her husband, suffered the same loss, but in his own way. This is the story of how Grandy faced her loss by setting out to make tear soup.

For many years the custom of making tear soup had been forgotten. As peoples' lives became more rushed they found it much easier to pull "soup in a can" from the shelf and heat it on the stove.

But several years ago Grandy got a taste of a well-seasoned tear soup. One of her friends made it from scratch after her child died. As soon as Grandy tasted the rich flavor of that carefully made soup, she promised herself never again to assume that quicker was better.

Because of her great loss Grandy knew this time her recipe for tear soup would call for a big pot. With a big pot she would have plenty of room for all the memories, all the misgivings, all the feelings and all the tears she needed to stew in the pot over time. (Along the bottom of this page there are several different pots lined up from smallest to biggest with different labels on them. They read, NOT FAIR, BAD NEWS, BIG DISAPPOINTMENT, SERIOUS HEART ACHE, PROFOUND LOSS, MAJOR TRAGEDY, and MORE THAN I CAN BEAR.)

She put on her apron because she knew it would get messy. It seems that grief is never clean. People feel misunderstood, feelings get hurt and wrong assumptions are made all over the place. To make matters worse, grief always takes longer to cook than anyone wants it to.

And then...Grandy started to cry. At first she sobbed.

Sometimes she wept quietly.

And sometimes when she was in a safe place where no one could hear her...she even wailed.

Grandy knew she had to make much of this part of the soup alone. She learned from past experiences that most people don't like being around tears. Her friends would worry if they knew just how many tears Grandy's recipe called for this time. So, the old and somewhat wise woman reflected on her own special recipe as she looked down into the large overflowing pot of memories. It was a task she would repeat many times during the next few months.

Granny winced when she took a sip of the broth. All she could taste was salt from her teardrops. It tasted bitter, but she knew this was where she had to start. And for now, it was the only thing on her menu.

There were things that Grandy never wanted to forget. These included the good times and the bad times, the silly and the sad times.

With her arms full of memories Grandy made many trips to the kitchen. One at a time, she slowly stirred all her precious and not so precious memories into the pot.

But eventually she ran out of things to add.

Grandy's arms ached and she felt stone cold and empty. There were no words that could describe the pain she was feeling. What's more, when she looked out the window it surprised her to see how the rest of the world was going on as usual while her world had stopped.

Her grandson, Chester, who just wanted his Grandy to be happy again, hoped his chocolate drops would make her feel better. Mrs. Bloomklotz, Ms. Chadwick and Mr. Long, all brave yet fearful neighbors, dropped by to see how Grandy was doing.

They filled the air with words, but none of their words took the smell of tear soup away. Grandy was gracious because she knew how helpless he friends felt. They wanted to fix her, but they couldn't. All Grandy really needed from them at that moment was a knowing look and a warm hug.

There were also days when Grandy hungered for a thoughtful ear. Sometimes she would ask total strangers, "Care to join me in a bowl of tear soup?" "No thanks," most would reply, "I don't have time for tear soup today." Even some of Grandy's friends hurried past her house and pretended not to notice the aroma of tear soup coming through her open door. Grandy found that most people can tolerate only a cup of someone else's tear soup. The giant bowl, where Grandy could repeatedly share her sadness in great detail, was left for a few willing friends.

"I'm here," Midge cried. "I got here as fast as I could and I'll be here whenever you need me. What a tragedy. I'm so sorry you're having to make such a big pot of soup." Oh what a relief. Grandy knew she didn't have to be careful what she said around Midge. Midge wouldn't try to talk her out of anything she was feeling. And Grandy could even laugh and not worry that Midge would assume Grandy was over her grief. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," said Midge. "No problem," replied Grandy. "I've had pleenty of help. But most of these friends will be history pretty soon. They'll be over my tragedy long before I am. But I know you'll still be around."

"I don't know what to say, but I'll be glad to listen," Midge said tenderly. "C'mon, tell me all about it while we make some bread to go along with your soup." These two friends, who had shared a thousand laughs and just as many tears, pounded at the bread dough together. "I feel like I'm unraveling." Grandy cried. "I'm mad. I'm confused. I can't make any decisions. Nobody can make me feel good. I'm a mess. I just didn't realize it would be this hard." "Why don't we go for a walk while we wait for the bread to rise," Midge suggested.

"I know exercise is supposed to help me but I feel like I have concrete blocks strapped to my legs. We'd better not go too far or you'll have to carry me home," moaned Grandy.

Mrs. Cries-a-lot called and reminded Grandy that she had been making tear soup for years and would be more than glad to come right over and show her how to make it the correct way. "Thanks but no," said Grandy. "This pot has my name on it." Grandy new better than to let Mrs. Cries-a-lot or anyone else tell her what she should do to get through this terrible loss.

Next her recipe called for some comfort food. For Grandy this meant mashed potatoes or ice cream. Comfort food always makes you feel better -- at least for a little while. It gets past that big lump in your throat when other foods can't. "I think it needs some chocolate too." After all, it was her soup.

Grandy kept attending worship even though she was mad at God. Sometimes she yelled at God and asked why this happened. And sometimes she demanded to know where God was when she was feeling so all alone.

Still, Grandy trusted God, but she didn't understand God. She sensed that people believed that if she really had faith she would be spared deep sorrow, anger, and loneliness. Grandy kept reminding herself to be grateful for ALL the emotions that God had given her.

On some afternoons people would ask questions like, "Is it soup yet?" Or, "How long is it going to take? You have been at this for over a month now. It's time to get out of the kitchen." Grandy fumed at the caller's advice.

Grandy looked forward to getting the mail each day. She dreaded the day when no more sympathy cards would come.

When she was alone and needed to thing she found it helpful to keep notes on her soup making.
*Today I'm upset that I have to be making this soup.
*I don't think anyone remembers that I'm making soup from scratch.
*What's the use...life seems to be so hard.
*I'm beginning to like that taste of this soup. I think I could live on it forever.

Thank goodness Grandy and Pops have been married a long time. They already knew each other's tear soup would be different. Secretly Grandy wished Papa would put more flavoring in his soup, but he doesn't want to. And he's perfectly content to dine alone and sip his own soup.

Making tear soup is hard work. Sometimes it was all she could think about. Even the things Grandy used to love to do, she didn't have the energy for, nor did she care about anymore.

Some of Grandy's friends over the years had not tended to their tear soup. Their soup boiled over and the pot scorched. What a mess. It took them a long time to clean up their pots and to start over. The smell of burnt soup still lingers in some of their homes.

Grandy knew there were times when she needed to take a break from her soup making. Even though it was hard to do, she forced herself to get away.

Grandy heard that a neighbor was having to take her turn in the kitchen. Some people thought that the neighbor was eating too much tear soup. So Grandy, being an old and somewhat wise woman, called and invited her to a special soup gathering where it's not bad manners to cry in your soup or have second helpings.

Soon the thoughtful cooks sat at Grandy's table and discussed the process of making tear soup. There are some parts that require help from friends and some parts you just have to do alone. They shared stories about soup makin they wouldn't dare tell anyone else for fear of being judged a bad cook.

They all laughed knowingly when Grandy remarked, how on days when she was daydreaming while driving, she was glad that the car seemed to know where she wanted to go. These people had become Grandy's "new best friends."

One day as Grandy and Chester were going for a drive, Chester asked, "Mom says you've been making tear soup. What does she mean?" "Well, tear soup is a way for you to sort through all the different types of feelings and memories you have when you lose someone or something special. Remember when your baby brother died right before he was born and your mom sat for days holding his blanket and weeping? She was making tear soup."

"You made tear soup yourself by acting out your own disappointment when you shouted at Jason, wishing his brother would die, too." "Remember when Billy's dog died and he didn't want to play with you? Not feeling like having fun is one fo the ingredients of tear soup, also." "And remember when Aunt Meg got divorced and they had to move? There was a lot of tear soup simmering in that house."

"Some days when you're making tear soup it's even hard to breathe. Some days you feel like running away. You just hope a better day comes along soon. And then comes one of the hardest parts of making tear soup. It's when you decided it may be okay to eat something instead of soup all the time."

The next morning as Grandy was cleaning up, Chester asked her if she was done making tear soup. "Well, I don't think you actually ever finish. The hard work of making this batch of soup is almost done though. I'll put the rest in the freezer and will pull it out from time to time to have a little taste."

"So what else have you learned by making tear soup, Grandy?" "I've learned that grief, like a pot of soup, changes the longer it simmerse and the more things you put into it. I've learned that sometimes people say unkind things, but they really don't mean to hurt you. And most importantly, I've learned that there is something down deep within all of us ready to help us survive the things we think we can't survive."

"Grandy, you know so much. What will I do after you die?" "Don't worry, I will leave you my recipe for tear soup."


So, head's up. Be patient with me whilst I pefect this dang recipe.