Maker of Soup Magic

There are some kinds of soup that are fillers before a meal that you barely notice, and then there are Poppy’s soups. They are the heart of the meal or perhaps the only dish in the meal. Dad and Mary Ellen had us over for dinner last night and Dad made soup. It was sort of in the realm of potato and leek soup, and it had both of those ingredients in it, but it also had other things, sausage and some other mysterious things. It was milky and hot, requiring Finn to have a good dose of milk as a chaser. Finn was motivated by the cupcake waiting for him at the bottom of the bowl, as it were. Clara could not be convinced even by the cupcake, although she tried cheerfully to move things around in case we missed the pile of leeks on her plate. Dad equally cheerfully shared a bite, but only a bite, of his cupcake with her.

This is the thing about Poppy soup. Poppy doesn’t make soup, he makes soup magic. It is about trying new things, never having the same soup (experience) twice because there’s always something else that would be interesting to try, and always, always being curious and keeping things interesting.

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It was about a year ago (on October 8) that Poppy came home from the hospital (three hospitals, over two months, one new heart later), and we celebrated with a vat of paella big enough to feed a village. That day, we didn’t know if Poppy would be able to physically get into the house or even out of the car. We didn’t know if he would be able ever to walk upstairs again.

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When Poppy reads articles about patients with COVID being on ventilators, kept alive by “something called an ECMO, which I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but it basically serves as the body’s heart and lungs,” I smile and nod and try not to experience PTSD. I don’t tell him that I could write a small thesis on the ECMO and it’s relationship to hypoxia, oxygen saturation levels, blood pressure, kidney functioning, sedation and intubation. Everyone in the family could.

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Just over a year ago, we took every flicker of the eyes or a movement from his left hand as an important indicator, not knowing which way he would go. We dissected his every movement for signs of progress or regression. We cried over his bedside, sat beside him throughout the night, prayed for him and held his hand while trying not to touch the equipment saving his life. We listened to every Rounds in the hallway, studied x-rays on the screen of Dad’s lungs, and asked too many questions (we were trained by the best). Camp Biggar may also have been known to eat a serious amount of food from Sweet Green, Panera’s, the Thai place and the M&M company. We rearranged waiting room furniture and conducted reliable and valid bathroom evaluations–anything to distract us from the fact that Dad may or may not leave that room awake.

Last night, I had to jog to keep up with him while walking the dog. He ran 4 miles a few weeks ago. He had Tatum pruning the hydrangea bush in the back yard yesterday, has handwritten 100 postcards to voters in West Virginia, written a screen play, performed as Bob the Weatherman in Finn’s film, and repaired our refrigerator. He has been to the Kennedy Center, a talk I gave at American University, and would have traveled the Baltic Sea this summer had it not been for a pandemic. Dancin’ Bob danced at Honi Honi and may have waterskied. He has made soup magic. Every dinner is a celebration with Poppy.