I was still at work and not in the kitchen on the night Chip called for an ambulance. His breathing had become more than his machine could handle. The hospital became his home, and hospice his reality.
Even though I knew I was losing Chip — and it hurt — instead of feeling bitter or concentrating on what I was losing, I realized how much I’d been given. I understood how much love we had shared.
It’s been 16 years since I lived in the house with the orange kitchen. And though I never developed Chip’s love of cooking, I adopted his take on family dinners. Everyone is welcome. It doesn’t need to be gourmet to be good. Cellphones are not acceptable dinner companions. One more plate is always easy to add. And the most important thing I learned is you never know who might cross your path and make an unexpected impact. Whatever season life finds you in, remaining open to possibility without judgment just may change your life.
The last time I saw Chip, just as I was leaving, he yelled for me to come back. I walked over to his bedside and leaned in close to him, so he wouldn’t have to strain to talk.
“The can opener is yours now.”
Nancy Bischoff is an attorney and educator with a master’s degree in educational leadership. She lives with her husband (whom she met in court as opposing counsel), their teenage daughter, and two pups. When she’s not writing, she’s reading — probably about someone who cooks better than she does. She still uses the can opener from this essay. Learn more about Nancy at nancybischoff.com and on Instagram @libraryofnancybischoff.
This article originally appeared on HuffPost in February 2026.
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