To Nourish a Friend

Inhaling scents of sage and garlic, I worried if it was enough. It wasn’t. Despite how inadequate I felt, I mustered on. The faint pink of the sausage transformed to a gloomy gray, and I mulled over how much everything had changed over the last several months. I listened to the sizzle of the meat, releasing my angst into the wooden spoon as I crumbled the sausage piece by piece. I had to be careful. Just the right amount of browning. The perfect umami without burning. Why hadn’t Val paid attention? Why hadn’t anyone else noticed the changes before it was too late? The sausage, at last, was perfectly browned, swimming gloriously in its rendered fat. On to the eggs.

Staring at the speckled shell, the thought assaulted me, “It could have been me.” Crack. “It should have been me.” Crack. “This isn’t right.” Plop. Yellow-orange spheres fell into the bowl one by one, each yolk punctuating the cruel irony of it all. I was the one who worried. I was the one with the risk factors. Yet, I was doing fine. And my friend was dying. As I whisked the eggs, I recalled the cold February night Val stopped by. She had been running a quick errand near my neighborhood, so would I mind if she stopped by to pick up her son’s science fair board? “Sure,” I replied, always eager for a chance to catch up with my friend. As I opened the door, warmth and joy radiated from my friend despite the chilly February night. She was picking up quilts she had commissioned a friend to craft from her kids’ sports t-shirts as Valentine’s Day gifts. Of course. So thoughtful. I wish I had done something so creative, so thoughtful. But I hadn’t. The candy hearts and cards I had prepared for my kids seemed a bit lackluster now, but Val inspired me to be more creative next year. As we caught up, she asked me if I would be teaching the same 7th grade class in our homeschooling co-op next year. Her son loved my class, and she hoped her daughter could enjoy the same experience as well. Reluctantly, I told her that after being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, I was taking a break from teaching. “Good for you, Mama,” she said. “You need to take care of yourself and focus on your own kids. You got this. I’ll be praying for you.” We finished our chat, mainly sharing our kids’ latest activities and interests, and I closed the door feeling so grateful to have Val in my life. A mother of five children, Val had encouraged me during my foray into homeschooling. Wrangling my two overly energetic boys and their sister to the homeschool co-op while teaching other children, I often doubted my abilities. On days when my children misbehaved, I felt like a failure. On the outside, I looked fine, but on the inside, I was crumbling. On those days, Val would place a hand on my shoulder and firmly say, “You’re doing a great job, Mama.” Suddenly, I was strong again. I could do this. I could go on. When others pointed out my children’s misbehaviors, Val highlighted their strengths. What a great friend. What a great mother. Why, God? I don’t understand.

The nutty aroma of browned butter permeated the air as I patiently stirred, and rivers of white and yellow congealed into a velvety pillow of golden scrambled eggs. So simple, yet so comforting. I wished they would provide more comfort to Val, to her family. How could breakfast burritos ease the pain of watching your mother suffer? How could eggs, sausage, and cheese wrapped in tortillas comfort a man watching his spouse waste away? Determined to do something for my friend, I proceeded in the process. I had a system. It would work out. Empty tortillas stared up at me from the kitchen table, waiting to be filled. Eggs first, sausage next, and a final layer of salty shredded cheese. Pinch the sides, roll, and cover with foil. I moved monotonously, despite the heaviness of the situation. As I labeled each burrito, I prayed they tasted good. I prayed my friend could eat a bite, and that whatever she tasted would bring a smile to her face.

It was time to go. The burritos were made and packed in the car. I wanted to bring them, but I didn’t want to face reality. My friend, who was the same age as me and one of the greatest women I knew, was dying of colon cancer. As I drove, I remember the fateful email Val sent me in March. She had been in pain for a while, which she had dismissed until it became unbearable. The doctors in the ER told her she had a large mass and needed to start chemo immediately. Don’t wait, they said. But Val did wait. She was going to pray, she said. She had faith she could find alternative methods to heal. She refused to name her illness, to give it any power over her. She wasn’t sure how her son would act in my class, as he was processing a lot, but she wanted to keep things as “normal” as possible. So, I prayed. I brought her meals. I listened to her son and tried to make my class a place of respite and release. I waited to hear how Val was doing. After weeks of trying alternative treatments, Val finally resorted to traditional treatments. She had waited too long. The cancer had spread.

“You need to pay attention to your symptoms,” the doctor told me. “Labs, colonoscopies, and medications are preventative. Crohn’s disease puts you at a higher risk for colon cancer. You don’t want that to happen.” Trying to swallow my tears, I responded, “I know. I will do whatever it takes. My friend is dying from colon cancer.” I was fine. My friend was not.

Pulling into the driveway, I gazed at the house Val helped design with her husband. With her keen eye for design and her husband’s construction business, Val had built her dream home. A place to raise her kids and hang out with her grandchildren, she had said. The white exterior, cedar shutters, and black door could have landed the pages of House Beautiful. I mulled over what to say as I rang the doorbell, inwardly commanding my emotions to shut down. Easing my worries, Val’s husband opened the door with a smile as he boomed, “We love these! The kids devoured them the last time. They will be so excited. Do you want to come in and visit Val?”

“Sure,” I responded. Unsure of how my friend was doing, I entered the family room of the beautiful home Val would only inhabit for a short time. Perfectly decorated—warm, welcoming, and unfussy, just like my friend. Radiating pure joy, my friend looked up at me. “How are you doing? It’s so good to see you,” she smiled. Her once sturdy frame lay withered beneath several blankets. Her question wasn’t meant to be small talk. She really wanted to know how I was doing. How were the kids? How was my health? Was there anything she could pray about for me? It all seemed surreal. I had come to feed my friend and her family, and yet once again, she was feeding me. She listened, encouraged, and laughed, never missing a moment to state, “You’re doing a good job, Mama.” Was I? Could I ever do as good of a job as Val? I vowed to try my hardest as we sat and watched the basketball game on TV as she drifted off to sleep. Though her body was a small wisp of her former self, her inner strength bolstered everyone around her. At 41, we were supposed to be looking forward to our kids’ high school graduations and college visits. We should be crossing off finish lines and looking forward to new races and adventures. Only Val had finished her race, and I must continue running without her.

My friend left us a short time after I brought her several more rounds of breakfast burritos. Despite the simple recipe, it was a favorite of the entire family. Some days, I look outside and wonder how the sky remains blue and the sun continues shining when the world has lost such a remarkable person. For Val, I continue the race of motherhood. I strive to be a “good Mama.” And despite their simplicity, breakfast burritos hold a sacred place in my heart.