The exchange of food has always been a statement of personal connection. Our rituals around food have told us who we are, how to behave, how to contribute, and how to preserve the unique aspects of our culture. The preparation of lavish dishes marks all the happy occasions--births, marriages, achievement and commemorations. Food is the lubricant of celebration.
Sorrow is a different story. The experience of loss. struggle, sickness and death seem antithetical to wolfing down a pan of lasagne. But the food keeps coming. Celebration is best savored in a crowd. Suffering, at its heart, is a more solitary stretch. As friends and loved ones we long to know exactly how to ease another's pain, how to fill their emptiness. And, like celebration, the answer is often the sustenance of food--for both the cook and the consumer. We hope that the food we share makes its way broken hearts and empty bellies. Regardless of
gender, religion, age or politics, we always come bearing food.
Recently a friend was diagnosed with breast cancer. The frequency of breast cancer has led to an impressive stash of information about knowledge and support. Unlike the unspeakable nature of cancer and its treatment 20 years ago, most women understand on some level, the treatment burdens that accompany of a diagnosis. In my friend's case, it was less than a week before another friend found a web site that even contained a form for organizing dinner contributions for a six week course of chemotherapy.
It was amazing how quickly the slots were filled in. I was struck by several things. First, the poultry market must be doing incredibly well, second, the variability of the quality in dinner contributions. I salivated over many a gourmet meal that could have been served in an upscale restaurant. Unfortunately when I compared themto my meals, the contrasts were pretty clear. Over the years I have kept my vow never to stoop so low as the Golden Arches. But I have to admit that the "Colonel" and I have had a secret connection for far to long.
The universal message of everyone's dishes is, "Hey, it's here if you want it." "This is what you need to do with it." "You don't have to interact with me in the slightest." "Let's agree from the start that I don't want you to make contacts about thanking me."
As we were posed to ring my friend's doorbell to deliver a post of soup, my husband turned to me and asked, "Where are the depression casseroles?" Back in the car, we silently tried to digest his dismay. It was a question of great relevance for which we had no answer. We were certainly experts in the area--with a resume of long stretches of horrific depressions, punctuated with arduous hospitalizations. Before the madness really brought me to my knees, the rhythm of our lives was already much too fast. My husband and I were in our mid-thirties. Our daughter was eight. This constellation meant that we were already swept up in our careers, and attending to our child whose schedule went far beyond my childhood in which the day was divided between school and playing in the street.
We have always felt well loved and well blessed. When I became unglued, our families wrapped their arms around us in different ways. But we three were struggling with a relentless illness that we didn't understand. Their confusion and paralysis mirrored out own.
So where were those casseroles? For our part, I think we worked too hard at to make things alright, when they absolutely weren't My husband, a clinical social worker and I, a psychologist, felt a sense of shame. If we were so good at helping people in our offices, how could be so inept at home?
Depression is usually not an illness that craves company. A knock on the door or the blasting insistence of the phone felt like threats to my shaky integrity. I could hardly swallow water, let along the eternity of the dinner table. We didn't ask for help.
Those reasons are only part of the story. Unlike thousands of years of people helping each other, there are few prototypes for reaching out to sufferers of mental illness. We have evolved in the area of knowing how to discuss and support each other in many difficult situations. Be we aren't near there when it comes to depression. Advocacy groups and individuals have made great inroads into mental illness stigma. But lessening those assaults on people is not the same as embracing us in times of challenge and need.
When I am significantly depressed, I can't eat, which is heartbreaking because on so many levels I am starving. Is there a casserole for that?
