Filet-O-Fish Fridays
Holding on to the threads of faith that pull us on our path.
A week ago, four days before Lisa’s final chemotherapy infusion, we stopped by McDonald’s for our annual observance of Filet-O-Fish Friday.
I love the Filet-O-Fish sandwich (don’t judge), but I only eat them on Fridays, and only during Lent. It’s a simple, slightly eccentric connection to my Catholic upbringing and a nostalgic nod to my childhood.
This year, we made our pilgrimage during one of Lisa’s “good” weeks, those last few days just before each infusion when the worst effects of the previous round have passed and she’s ready for a break from her non-stop streaming-on-the-couch. But because her treatment puts her at a greater risk for Covid, we don’t go too far and she has to stay in the car.
I’m not sure my beautiful wife shares my passion for the Filet-O-Fish. But after so many years together, she’s used to my quirky, slightly obsessive rules and rituals. And she was glad to get out of the house, even if she couldn’t get out of the car.
So on our way to CVS last Friday, we carried out a couple of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches and ate them in our electric blue Toyota.
Lisa and I are both old enough to remember when the Mass was said in Latin, women wore veils to church, and our families ate fish on Fridays — every Friday, all year long.
For my family, that meant Tuna Noodle Casserole (made with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup); Papa Sullivan’s Shrimp Creole; “Friday Spaghetti” (tomato sauce with no meat); and parish Fish Fries.
Over the years, of course, The Church changed its rules about eating fish on Friday, and my faith followed a path of its own. I no longer practice the same Faith my family did, but I respect and admire it as much as ever. What I learned growing up formed the foundation of the spiritual practices I follow today, and I still have a deep and abiding love for many of my family’s rituals and traditions.
Like eating fish on Fridays.
Yes. I know. It’s a pretty thin thread that ties my annual Filet-O-Fish indulgence to the religious practices of my childhood. But those practices helped to make me who I am, and it’s tiny threads like these that hold me together in good times and bad.
I find myself grasping for those threads more desperately than ever as I ride along with Lisa on her journey past cancer.
I gladly accept the prayers of faithful family and friends. I save every devotional prayer card that comes in the mail. And I may not exactly know what a Novena is, but when it’s offered, I’m all in. We’ll take all the help we can get.
Because there have been moments in this journey when it all felt overwhelming. When the side effects and unexpected complications of chemotherapy were so painful and exhausting for Lisa, so frightening and heartbreaking to see, that neither of us thought we could make it through the full six rounds.
But here we are, four months and six infusions later, still making our way down a road that’s been chosen for us, with chemo in our rear-view mirror. Looking forward to a time — post-cancer, post-Covid — when we can travel to destinations more exciting than McDonald’s and CVS. And Lisa can get out of the car.
Until that time, we keep going. Fueled by the love of family and friends. Stopping for the occasional Filet-O-Fish. And clinging ever so tightly to the thin, unbreakable threads of faith that pull us forward on our path.
