Who Will Bring Me Soup?

My friend, Karen, recently had knee surgery. She is single and lives alone with two big dogs, neither of which could bring her soup if their lives depended on it.

But, as it happens, my friend, Karen, has 10,000 friends. After her surgery, they nudged each other out of the way to take shifts visiting her. There was a chart. So I put my name on the chart, thinking this is weird. Karen has been my friend for close to fifty years, she was the maid of honor in my hurry-up wedding at the local courthouse forty years ago, and been around for several kids, swims, holidays, protests, and hilarious chats in the car driving places. She is the person I can tell anything to, but here I was putting my name on her visiting chart.

That she had so many friends was no surprise, her being way more social than me, and much more consistent and attentive to people. The surprise came from the realization that if I was single and broke my leg, Karen and my other friend, Christina, would be the only two people who would bring me soup.

Oh, I know a lot of people. A lot. And I like a lot of people and I think there are plenty of people who like me. Sort of. But bringing soup? Signing up for shifts? That’s not happening.

I reflected on this for several days. I need more soup-bringing friends. It’s a solemn thought. I could be very sick and have only Campbell’s keeping me company. Then I think about how I could have lived my life differently to be more like Karen and less like myself. Next is the scolding about how much I indulged my affection for being alone, how I should have cultivated my gregariousness instead of inching backward from conversations and gaiety. The self-recrimination lasted until dawn.

But now the angst is gone, replaced by this thought: I am a bringer of soup. And that makes me glad and happy with myself. If I break my leg, I’ll just have to hope for the best.

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Photo by Piotr Miazga on Unsplash

An addendum – I have to say that a while ago during my husband’s rough couple of weeks after knee surgery, a writing friend brought us the most indescribably wonderful beef bourguignon which made me grateful to her and the universe for days. So, I guess there’s hope.