Well, Dad, I think I pulled it off. While everyone else is gearing up to have their big Christmas Day dinners and exchange gifts with family members tomorrow after waking up early, eating chocolate, and watching the littles dive into their presents, I have managed to get mostly everything out of the way today. So tomorrow will be all about Baby Girl and HER presents from Santa, and visiting Mom. And relaxing. And I’m all about that.
I start planning for Christmas in September. I love the whole Christmas season. The lights, the music, the gifts, the wrapping, the magic and the joy. Making fudge. Making cookies. Making memories. But these last three Christmases have been anything but easy. I start planning in September because I know that come December, all hell has usually broken loose and I had better be prepared.
Three years ago my parents had first moved to Pilot Point and it was a month full of the flurry of unpacking, and helping Mom to understand what was happening. Christmas Day with Mom was difficult. She was overwhelmed and couldn’t even open, much less appreciate, her gifts. Though she tried mightily it was obvious to all of us that Christmas as we had always known it was gone.
Two years ago my Dad lay in a hospital bed in Ft. Worth fighting for his life. It was me that bought, wrapped, gave, cooked and otherwise “made Christmas happen” for Baby Girl, my brother and his kids. My Dad remembered none of it. Had no idea that we all trooped to Ft. Worth on Christmas Day to visit. Mom cried when we visited her on Christmas Eve, having moved into a memory care facility just at the beginning of the month. Overwhelmed and emotional, it was hard on everyone, especially her and Dad, who didn’t even get to see each other.
Then last Christmas Dad actually was here, in my home, celebrating with us. He spent the night and was present for the presents Santa brought. He helped Baby Girl un-do and un-box and set up and it was all just so bittersweet. He was here, but Mom wasn’t. Mom wasn’t forgotten, of course, but bringing her home for even just the day wasn’t an option. Mom relies on security and being able to make sense of things. Routine is all important. For any of you that may wonder, “sun-downing” in Alzheimer’s patients is a very real, and very scary thing. Tony made a brisket and we ate that with a few other sides. Nothing crazy. Nothing that would make me break down and cry like I did on Thanksgiving when I couldn’t figure out how to make Mom’s famous gravy.
Fast forward to this year.
Dad – last night I cried. Huge grief filled balloon tears. I felt no Christmas joy, not an ounce of Christmas spirit. This month has gone so quickly. We did all the Christmas things – I bought gifts (online except for the Wine Store – my favorite place to shop), I took Baby Girl and Sissy to Frisco Radiance! A lights spectacular – or so it said. It was really less than impressive but then I’m fairly difficult to please these days. We made fudge. We made Christmas ornaments for teachers and friends. We went to a Christmas party. Baby Girl did a gingerbread house. We took a lot of pictures. But somehow, Dad, it all just seemed so…. quiet.
I just can’t get used to the silence. To the emptiness that surrounds me. Last night it erupted within me. It was all I could think about, all I could focus on. You aren’t here, you aren’t here, you aren’t here – like a broken record. I went to bed full of sorrow and tears.
I woke up this morning with a new purpose. I wrote my list out and started in cleaning the house. I made banana bread. I vacuumed. I sorted and put away the laundry. I windexed. I made corn casserole per the Princess’s request. I did all the things. At noon I put in the frozen turkey I had bought at Kroger. Two hours and forty five minutes later I had a turkey that was actually edible! At 2:00 the in-laws showed up, and just before them was Sissy. Everyone was assembled and as we sat down to eat I smiled to myself. Hello Dad I said silently. I feel you. I know you would have been amazed at the concept of the frozen turkey. You would have ate the store-bought gravy. And if you were here I would have had cranberries from a jar. I smiled because I could hear you. I could feel you. You were here, even if I was the only one who knew it.
Amazingly, Dad, today I’m ok. Today I put it all together. For you. For the us that we used to be. And I think I did alright. Tonight Baby Girl and I will make cookies for Santa and once she’s asleep I’ll sneak the gifts in and do the stockings. We have stockings for everyone in the house, Dad. All four of us plus the three cats, two dolls and one stuffed Cheetah. And trust me, they ALL will have been filled by Santa. The magic is still alive Dad, still here. Baby Girl is having a wonderful Christmas and tomorrow will be even better. I won’t cry when we visit Mom, I promise. I’ll make sure that I hold it together. I’ll make sure Mom feels you, too. By sharing with her my Christmas Spirit, the Spirit that you somehow gave to me last night while I slept.
Thank you, Dad. I love you. Merry Christmas in Heaven.
