Spoon Theory
I picked her up at Penn Station on a blustery morning, the day after Christmas. She took the train up from DC where she’d been spending the holidays with her in-laws. I was excited about her visit, and I'll admit, a little nervous. We talk weekly, and I see her every time I go to Dallas, but this was her first stay with me since having a kid and a brain tumor. Six years ago she had a beautiful baby girl. Nine months after that, she was diagnosed with cancer. An inoperable brain tumor had twisted it’s spindly little arms into the crevices of that big, beautiful, goofy head of hers. I remember where I was when she broke the news like it was yesterday: an escalator at Century 21. I wound up sitting on the floor of the department store in the coat section listening, trying to comprehend.
A few days before her visit, she called to warn me of her current condition. The doctors had changed around her anti-seizure medications and it had an adverse affect. She had been out of commission for the past couple of weeks, in an incredible amount of pain. She assured me the doctors had fixed the dosage, and she was on the mend, but she wanted me to know that she might not be entirely herself. She might be more tired than usual, and she just wanted me to know. She sounded fine, though. I figured she was just being overly cautious like she'd been since we were little.
But I did want to prepare. I know she can’t take noise levels as loud as I like them, so movies and music needed to be played pretty low. I know the cold affects her much more than most people, so I stocked up on hand warmers and extra blankets. I know she doesn’t always have an appetite, and when she does she’s picky. Though she’s been a picky eater since forever. Figuring she’d likely want to stay in, I bought groceries and picked out a nice piece of salmon for dinner. Salmon being kind of special, but also a safe bet.
When we embraced at the station, I could tell something wasn’t quite right. Her eyes didn’t focus on mine and her embrace was frailer than usual. Not in weight or strength, but as if she were far away. Like speaking to someone long distance over a landline phone.
I carried her bag, and we trudged over to the subway. Suddenly I was perceiving everything through her eyes, and it all seemed louder and dirtier. Except when I checked in with her, she barely seemed to notice. I just wanted to get her home as soon as possible. On the train, she asked what our stop was. I told her, and then she asked me again one stop later. I told her not to worry, I'd get her home. But she stared up at the display definitely concerned we'd miss it. When she asked me what our stop was again, I got frustrated. She bit her lip. She told me quietly that her short term memory was a little fried at the moment. I felt like an ass.
When we got to the apartment, it was brilliantly sunny and warm inside, a greenhouse oasis from the bitter cold. The dog nuzzled her, and she quickly made herself at home. Her dark sarcasm and biting humor as sharp as ever. Soon enough, we fell into an easy intimacy, the familiar short hand of two people who’ve known each other a lifetime. Then she napped.
When dinner rolled around, it turned out I had failed on the salmon front. She didn’t like salmon, couldn’t stomach it, and so ensued a round of me trying to get her to eat something and her declining everything. She apologized a lot. I begged her to stop apologizing. We wound up going out for pasta.
I’m always trying to get her to eat, and I was particularly insistent during this trip. Because of the cold, and the holidays, and her being on the mend, we weren’t going to do much over the next few days except hang out at the house. But I thought at least we had to eat yummy things like bagels and home cooking. It kept frustrating me that she’d turn everything down. At the beginning of her illness I understood it. I also understood it during her years of chemo and radiation treatments. But I think of her as virtually recovered now, and I know she’s supposed to eat more. I also feel like it’s the one thing I’m sort of good at so somehow it's my duty to get her to eat. Somehow I’m helping. But I’m not helping. That’s when she showed me the Spoon Theory.
The Spoon Theory is a visual metaphor for how much energy daily tasks require for someone with a chronic illness. You get a certain amount of spoons a day, and activities like getting dressed, driving a car, taking meds, or having a meal, take a certain amount of spoons, or energy units, away. To my dismay, having a meal takes away a lot of spoons. It’s a beautifully simple metaphor that Christine Miserandino came up with to describe what having lupus was like to one of her close friends. Here I was, dumbstruck, sitting at my kitchen table with my friend having the same conversation.
Our closeness has waxed and waned over the years depending on where we are in our lives. With me in New York, I'd say we didn’t keep up as much. Until she was diagnosed. In the six years since, we have never let more than a week or two go by without speaking. In the first few years, there was the rollercoaster ride of doctors and treatments and MRI updates, plus all of her daughter's milestones. When I went through my divorce though, we spoke daily for a year. She threw herself into being my support system. As I sat there at the kitchen table staring at the Spoon Theory, I couldn’t help but replay all the sobbing phone calls, and mundane chitchats we’d shared. I never realized how much of what she was going through I hadn’t fully grasped. How many spoons it took for her to make those calls. How much energy it took for her to just be my friend. Now it was my turn to apologize. We hugged, we definitely cried. She said it was okay. And then she asked if she could she help me make dinner.
We made a big pot of chicken soup. It’s my specialty, maybe the most of me I can offer in a dish. While it simmered away on the stove, she napped in the sunlight, the scarf she was knitting me lay on her lap. I thought she looked like grace in repose.
The next morning I knew better than to offer her anything more than coffee. I’d finally gotten it right, and now I had to take her back to the train. As we bundled up and got her bag together, she asked me if it wasn’t too much trouble, could I pack her some soup to go. I thought she was just being polite. But she smirked. Polite? Between us?
"No, girl. It's the best meal I've had all trip. Besides, I can eat it by the spoonful.”
*Photography of Emily Peña Williams by www.artsymagnet.com
Find the recipe inspired by the tale HERE.
