You just do.
There's always a let down after Christmas. The house feels empty and stark without the decorations and the most amazing, most gigantic, most fabulous tree ever (it's now left for kindling at the curb). New toys have found new homes and the garbage men have earned a raise after tackling our trash pile. Everyone has gone back home. It's no longer acceptable to pour a glass of wine at 2 in the afternoon (or so they say). It's kind of sad. Even sadder this year I suppose.
In the days and weeks following Mom's diagnosis I found myself wondering how I would go on every day when all I could think about was that I am going to lose her. And there still aren't many minutes that go by that I don't think about her, or it. Then I started thinking about the how. How do we 'celebrate' the holidays knowing that they will likely be her last? How do I balance utter sadness, devastation, and true fear with the magic and excitement and joy of three kids on Christmas morning? How do I wrap presents and label them 'Mom' with a big red bow, for the last time? How do I listen to her voice read The Night Before Christmas and not curl up into a ball on her lap and sob?
And the answer to the 'hows' is, you just do. Not sure that we did it well or even okay but we did Christmas. We celebrated that this Christmas we were together. That she was here. I put a little extra thoughts and love into her gifts and tried to worry less about everything else. I took copious mental notes on getting her stuffing just right so that when she's not here to make it, I can (the answer is always, more butter and poultry seasoning). We took videos of us reading The Night Before Christmas and also random videos of her chatting with the kids. Videos recorded through tear filled eyes that I know someday I will cherish with all that I am. We cried. A lot. But there was also laughter. And excitement and wrapping paper piled a couple feet high. It felt like Christmas with a cloud over it, but still Christmas. And I got new red shoes 👠.
All of these 'lasts' were, and are terrifying and the emotion is so real, so raw, so unsettling that you want so desperately to run away from it. Run so fast and so far that the nauseating feeling in your gut can't find you, that those tears that you cry every day, stop flowing. But there is no escaping it. Reality, that is. The reality of what Mom is facing is terrifying, it's unfair. And it's scariest for her. With that in mind, my parents are moving to be closer to doctors who make her feel safe. Unfortunately for us, the doctor here, forgot the meaning of patient centered care and has forced her to seek other options. So as we bring 2016 to a close, we hope that 2017 brings comfort, and peace, and laughter and joy for Mom. And for Dad too. They deserve it. More than anyone I know.
In the days and weeks following Mom's diagnosis I found myself wondering how I would go on every day when all I could think about was that I am going to lose her. And there still aren't many minutes that go by that I don't think about her, or it. Then I started thinking about the how. How do we 'celebrate' the holidays knowing that they will likely be her last? How do I balance utter sadness, devastation, and true fear with the magic and excitement and joy of three kids on Christmas morning? How do I wrap presents and label them 'Mom' with a big red bow, for the last time? How do I listen to her voice read The Night Before Christmas and not curl up into a ball on her lap and sob?
And the answer to the 'hows' is, you just do. Not sure that we did it well or even okay but we did Christmas. We celebrated that this Christmas we were together. That she was here. I put a little extra thoughts and love into her gifts and tried to worry less about everything else. I took copious mental notes on getting her stuffing just right so that when she's not here to make it, I can (the answer is always, more butter and poultry seasoning). We took videos of us reading The Night Before Christmas and also random videos of her chatting with the kids. Videos recorded through tear filled eyes that I know someday I will cherish with all that I am. We cried. A lot. But there was also laughter. And excitement and wrapping paper piled a couple feet high. It felt like Christmas with a cloud over it, but still Christmas. And I got new red shoes 👠.
All of these 'lasts' were, and are terrifying and the emotion is so real, so raw, so unsettling that you want so desperately to run away from it. Run so fast and so far that the nauseating feeling in your gut can't find you, that those tears that you cry every day, stop flowing. But there is no escaping it. Reality, that is. The reality of what Mom is facing is terrifying, it's unfair. And it's scariest for her. With that in mind, my parents are moving to be closer to doctors who make her feel safe. Unfortunately for us, the doctor here, forgot the meaning of patient centered care and has forced her to seek other options. So as we bring 2016 to a close, we hope that 2017 brings comfort, and peace, and laughter and joy for Mom. And for Dad too. They deserve it. More than anyone I know.
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