Dill Pickle Soup

by Donna Poole

“Did you decide yet? You feel up to Turkeyville this time?”

How could she say no? He’d had a week. Appointments or blood work every day, and today was Friday. He’d just visited his nephrologist, sixty-three miles from home, something he did as doctors stood on a balance beam trying to keep his cardio-renal syndrome in check. His congestive heart failure had been worsening since fall, and strict sodium protocols were important. The food at Turkeyville wasn’t exactly low sodium, though they did raise their own turkeys and served them “fresh never frozen” and never used preservatives or brining.  And, he’d been very careful, almost no sodium at breakfast or lunch.

He loved the place, a 400-acre family farm with all things turkey, a main restaurant, a little ice cream parlor, and a gift shop. She knew the gift shop sold little signs, like “I’d Rather Be Canoeing.” She wished they sold one that said, “I’d Rather Be Cocooning.”

Still, she hesitated. Not just because of the sodium, but because she was something she hated to admit. She was cocoon tired, and that had been ruling her life far too often lately. She did what she had to do, and then she went home, cocooned herself in blankets, and slept it off.

His eyes were bright and hopeful, something she hadn’t seen much of lately. He’d been exhausted himself, battling the acute on chronic congestive heart failure. Where had this sudden burst of energy come from? Usually, he was even more ready than she to get home as quickly as possible after an out-of-town doctor’s appointment, and between the two of them, they had way too many.

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d actually stopped at Turkeyville, just the two of them, but it had been a long time. And she felt deeply sad that her exhaustion was slowly shutting life’s door for both of them. It had been too many years of chemo, radiation, and immunotherapy, too many years of pushing past her limits. So many days now were like today, when just lifting her cane and putting one foot ahead of the other made her vision swim. She longed for bed like a starving person might want…. She glanced at his face. Like a hungry man might want turkey. And it would be another six months, perhaps, before they would be back this way.

“Let’s go!”

He grinned and years fell off his shoulders. “You sure?” But he was already driving out of the nephrology parking lot and headed for Turkey Town.

“Sorry I’m walking so slow,” she mumbled on the way into the restaurant. “My mind says to pick it up, but my legs won’t obey.”

“It’s okay, honey. We aren’t in any hurry.”

He knew exactly what he wanted. She debated for a bit. She finally settled on half a sandwich and a cup of soup.

“We have barley and dill pickle,” the lady behind the counter said.

Her eyes widened, and the lady chuckled. “The dill pickle is actually quite good.”

Another silent debate with herself. Barley wasn’t her favorite, but it was a safe choice. “I’ll go with the barley,” she said.

On one side of the counter a nod and clicking of computer keys.

On the other side of the counter an old lady, hunched over, leaning on her cane, remembering a young girl she’d once known quite well, who’d flown on metal roller skates down the steepest hill she could find in Ithaca, New York, landed in a bruised heap at the bottom, and wanted to do it again. A girl who was always ready for any adventure, even when she grew into a young woman, a young wife, a young mother. Where had she gone, and when had she left?

“Wait!”

The computer keys stopped clicking.

“May I change my order? I want to try the dill pickle soup. If I don’t try it now, at my age, who knows if I’ll ever get another chance?”

A small smile crossed the woman’s face. “Yes, well I see what you’re saying.”

Dinner finished, the old couple visited the gift shop.

She didn’t find a sign that said, “I’d rather be cocooning,” but she did find a few gifts for loved ones.

As they left, he said, “Ramp or stairs?”

“Ramp. No, wait. Stairs. There are only a few. I can do them.”

A huge cloud, the largest she’d ever seen, followed them home for more than fifty miles. They stopped at a park and ate their pie they’d brought from the restaurant, and a foggy mist rose off the lake, slowly cloaking their surroundings in an eerie, beautiful, mystery.

He tucked her into bed that night, helped her wrap herself in her cocoon, like he always did.

“So, how was that dill pickle soup?”

“Disgusting. Ten out of ten do not recommend.”

He looked at her then laughed softly.

“But you’re glad you ate it, aren’t you?”

“I am. I’d do it again.”

Smiling, he went around to his side of the bed and crawled in.

She pulled one arm out of the cocoon; she had to start getting ready for tomorrow’s adventure. But no. It was cold, and she was so tired she couldn’t even think of a word for it. She put her arm back inside the cocoon and grinned. She decided to dream about an old lady who found a pair of metal skates in a thrift store, put them on over her shoes, and flew down a sidewalk on the steepest hill in Ithaca, New York. Only she wouldn’t land in a bruised heap at the bottom. Someone with strong arms would catch her. It would be a handsome older man, the one who was right now putting on his sleep apnea face mask and probably planning to dream of turkey dinners. And Someone else would hold them both, Someone with even stronger arms she could feel but not see. Not yet.

The end.

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter