The First Casserole

The first casserole has arrived. I had been told that this would happen. I had been warned that this would happen. Just last week in a pissy, “Why don’t people realize this is hard on me too” mood, I had spit, “So when do the fucking casseroles start arriving?”

And here it is. Spinach lasagna. A huge pan. A tray to feed 12. Vegetarian. Home-made tomato sauce. The amazement is the “who”. The woman who dropped off this huge tray of beautiful lasagna is a woman I don't know well. She is a professional colleague. We have had coffee maybe twice. But a month ago I told her about John and the cancer. She “got it” immediately. She told me of caring for her father for the 18 months that he was dying of brain cancer. She spoke frankly and directly about the pain of caring for him. She told me about juggling work, a new job, a new baby and taking her Dad to doctors and hospitals. Not knowing day from night. She also told me her regrets: that she wished she had not worried about work so much, that she had taken a leave sooner, that she had told more people what was happening—and let them help her.

To me the testimony of her “getting it” was that the amazing lasagna came in a foil (disposable) pan and with instructions on how to heat, serve and even freeze parts for later meals. She knows that having to wash and return a pan is just the thing that can reduce a caregiver to hysterical sobbing.

There are many gifts in this gift of lasagna. Knowing that someone gets it on this level. And you just never know who it will be. One’s closest friend maybe in the dark. A stranger can grasp it and respond with love in just one day.