In the days after my mom's death, I learned that "what if" was a dangerous game to play.
What if I'd gone to the hospital with her that first day?
What if I'd been less frustrated with her on the last day she was home with me?
What if I'd demanded they let her see her, despite COVID protocols being in place longer after the pandemic was over?
What if we'd done this or that differently?
It took me about 48 hours to realize that I was never going to win that game. I knew deep down I'd done the best I could for her throughout many years of caregiving, even if it wasn't always perfect. More than anything, I hoped she knew that. But in those early days, I had to make a promise to myself that "what ifs" weren't reality, and that the guilt they brought would get me nowhere.
I didn't realize there were other forms of guilt associated with grief, and last Sunday night, one settled in right beside me in my kitchen.
When I was a kid, one of my mom's favorite things to cook and eat was vegetable soup. I ate it, too, but as I got older I stopped. I can't remember why, exactly — it just didn't appeal to me. I probably haven't eaten it since I was eight or nine years old.
But as I've mentioned in a few other columns, I've been on health kick, where I'm eating little to no processed foods. Existing mostly on meat, cheese, fruit, vegetables, oil, and nuts for weeks has led to some unique cravings, and one of those was that same tomato-based vegetable soup from my childhood.
I'm also trying to cook more for my dad because he basically exists on sandwiches and chips, and when I told him I was going to try to recreate my mom's vegetable soup, he said to count him in. I was delighted because he's picky, and it's hard for me to find something he and I will both eat. Plus, I'm not the best cook and my repertoire is limited, but I'm working on that.
So, on Sunday night, I gathered all the ingredients I'd bought the week before and got to work — I had fresh vegetables, fire-roasted tomatoes, broth, bullion, fresh herbs, and various seasonings. What I didn't have was a recipe. There's a meme I see occasionally on social media that says something like "Southern women don't measure anything when they cook. They just sprinkle and add stuff until they hear their ancestors whisper 'That's enough, child.'" That's pretty much how I did it, testing it as I went along.
I'll be the first to admit that I was quite pleased with the final outcome. It tasted like something you'd order in a restaurant, if I do say so myself. But the real test was my dad. He got his bowl and the bread I'd toasted for him, and within minutes, he was shouting at me about how good it was. He's not one to get overly excited about food, so that was a big win. He came back for seconds before he was even done with the first bowl.
After we ate, I mentioned that my mom would have enjoyed the soup, and my dad agreed. He also mentioned that it was one his father's — my late grandfather's — favorite dishes. It made me really sad to think that neither of them was here to enjoy it. My mom would have been shocked that I even made it and ate, let alone that it tasted as good as it did.
A while later, I was getting ready for bed, and suddenly, an image popped into my head, seemingly as if from nowhere. It was my mom standing at the kitchen sink in my childhood home filling an old bottle of ketchup with water and putting it in her vegetable soup. I tried to tell myself that this was just some secret ingredient she included, but the more I thought about it, the more I remembered her making the soup a little differently than I did. Water instead of broth. Frozen and canned vegetables instead of fresh (unless it was garden season). Watered-down ketchup instead of fancy, organic fire-roasted tomatoes from Publix. There was no bullion or fresh herbs, just whatever she happened to have on hand.
Suddenly, I didn't see my mother in that memory. I saw a young woman who didn't have a lot of money but was trying her best to put together a nutritious meal for her family. It felt like a punch in the gut.
All I wanted in that moment was for her to be here to eat my soup with all the fresh ingredients. Suddenly, I hated the idea that I was here to eat it, and my dad was here to eat it, but she wasn't.
I thought I'd beaten the guilt that comes with grief — the guilt that tries to keep you stuck in a past you can't change.
But this was the first time I'd truly felt guilt about the present and moving on — moving on to something better than she ever had, even if it was just a bowl of soup. In my mind, she deserves to be here to move on to the elevated bowl of soup, too.
I know many people experience guilt about enjoying themselves after losing a loved one, and I suppose this was a version of that. I've experienced plenty of joy since my mom died, and while I've had thoughts about how she would have loved to be here to witness or experience this or that, I've never felt guilty about it. Until I made that soup on Sunday...
I actually just saw a quote that says "joy and sorrow are not opposites... they can coexist," and boy, did I learn that lesson. While it was tempting to wallow — and I did a little bit — I finally realized that even though she wasn't here, she would be happy to know that my dad and I were joyfully eating this nice meal that I cooked. Most mothers would, I think. If I had a child, I'd want her to have an even better life than I do.
My mom would probably be proud that I was trying to recreate her recipe, that I was eating healthy, and that I was making sure my dad was fed... and the only way to keep her memory alive is to continue doing these things, I suppose, even if they always come with a hint of sorrow that will probably never quite go away.
