Two Bowls of Vegetable Soup
Rachel McLellan
“Would you mind discharging me after lunch, so I can order that vegetable soup? I’m going to treat myself to two bowls. That was the best vegetable soup I’ve ever had in my life.”
As a third-year medical student, I smiled from his contagious delight, carefully and optimistically agreeing to see what I could do. Hearing the impending bustle of his family meeting and palliative care consult, it was clear he would be staying through morning.
Bob was diagnosed with a rare gastric cancer at ninety-five years old, though he quietly, contently rejected both his age and the burden of the oncologist’s note. Each early morning, as the sunlight strained to warm the winter’s night, he was seen making his bed and opening a book before the team arrived. Wearing a new blue fleece cap and wire rimmed glasses, he patiently waited for us and our morning visit.
He smiled. We smiled. He joked. We joked. He went back to reading, and we let out a collective sigh through the doorway. His gentle, goofy, innocent grin left our chests tight and eyes glossy. The team shared a somber, collective grief at the news of his diagnosis, begging for his older age to soften the reminder of his life’s near end.
Later that morning, I held pressure after removing his arterial line, granting us an intimate thirty minutes together. He didn’t mind. After his hospital stay, he was looking forward to moving in with his daughter, foregoing his current independent living – justifying the opportunity to spend more time with his granddaughter.
As if he was telling a story of a life not his own, he described his neighborhood, recounted his past jobs, celebrated his children’s achievements, and grieved his wife’s diagnosis of dementia. His tone grew softer as he gazed out the window, almost surprised to hear what he chose to share with me. He struggled to think of what else to say, and his pause became infectiously sentimental.
He abruptly, loudly joked, “This place is like a hotel. It has the best food. I swear that vegetable soup is the best vegetable soup I’ve ever had in my entire life.” We joked, “I am going to spoil myself with two bowls for lunch.” He repeated his light-hearted, corny request, hearing it strike me as I laughed and agreed, hoping to give it a try myself. Soon after, our time together was up.
By mid-afternoon, his room was empty, cleaned, and ready for the next patient. I too found myself heading home, ready to brace the chill of winter. Making a hot tea, I nearly bumped into the shiny, awkward, wheeled metal shelves that store the finished meal trays. With only a few plastic platters loaded, I could see the partially finished contents – sandwich crumbs, salads, untouched chicken.
Two bowls of vegetable soup.
Smiling tightly lipped, my tears welled. Never truly saying goodbye to him, I silently nodded to Bob and his choice to spoil himself for lunch. However, one detail was not lost – both bowls of vegetable soup were half finished.
Perhaps the splurge of ordering two bowls of vegetable soup was indulgent enough, almost a toast to free will in the face of terminal cancer. Maybe he raised a fist to the sky, “watch this!” A part of me wondered if he really did try to eat both bowls of soup, wanting to savor the self-proclaimed “best vegetable soup of his life.”
As I walked home, facing the sharp, chilly air, I kept wondering why I was so struck by this cold, boring, unfinished vegetable soup.
Earlier that day, Bob shared pieces of his life’s story and spoke as if it was half done – even at the age of ninety-five. He was in awe, nearly perplexed that his well-acquainted existence could be over so soon. He couldn’t list things he wanted to do or places he wanted to see, but he described a feeling that something just wasn’t supposed to be over – life was unfinished.
We look forward to a wonderful life, just as Bob looked forward to his two bowls of vegetable soup. Both may be left unfinished. Sometimes, I worry that that is inherently what approaching the end of life implies, to grieve the many lives you dreamed of having. Maybe the soup grew cold, or maybe he just felt content, satisfied.
As we often carry the weight of lost lives in medicine, I feel guilty for letting the death of one man remind me of my one chance to live. Though this interaction may have been simple in itself, it speaks to a longing for depth, meaning, and hope in the simple acts of everyday life. Sincerely, I would be so lucky to have days of happiness come from an unexpectedly tasty lunch.
I want to find and finish my two bowls of vegetable soup in every day, to live with the same gratitude and appreciation for the small treasures that life surprises us with.
Thank you, Bob, for recommending the vegetable soup.
Rachel McLellan is an MS4 at UMass Chan Medical School who is interested in neurosurgery and patient advocacy. Her motivation to pursue medicine remains deeply rooted in patient interactions and care.
