The Last Christmas Cookie

The Last Christmas Cookie

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I finished washing the dishes and putting the crystal away.  I wiped away the spills and crumbs from our New Year's Day celebration and thought about the holiday season.  There was a bittersweet quality to my memories.  It had been a busy, chaotic season.  So often I had thought about my mother's condition as I kept striving to create a memorable holiday.  I had cooked, baked, decorated, planned, wrapped, shopped and cleaned.  I had cared for Mom, saw to her needs, and adhered to her schedule.  It was incredibly stressful.  Her Alzheimer's disease was progressing to the point that I often had to stop what I was doing to take care of issues I had not even imagined earlier.  She required constant supervision while awake. I called it the 'Shiny Object Syndrome'.  Mom was attracted to anything new and different.  She touched, tasted, and took anything that interested her.  If I turned my back something might go missing or worse; something might end up with a thumbprint in the middle or a nibbled corner.  It didn't matter how many cookies she sampled, she would forget and look for more.  Trying to put together holiday treats, gifts, and preparing for parties and entertaining was beyond difficult.  As I thought back about the events of the past month my eye caught a plate I had missed.  It held one cookie.  I was about to toss it in the trash, filled with resolve to remove sugar from my diet when I stopped myself.  It was the last of the Christmas cookies and the symbolic meaning didn't escape my notice.  To me the cookie represented the joy of the season, the memories created, the laughter, camaraderie,  cheer.  Within its tiny circumference was a world of emotions: the happiness and the reminder that the Holidays were over. 

 I thought back to Christmas Day.  We had gathered at my daughter and son-in-law's home to enjoy another wonderful Christmas. I looked around the room filled with loving, smiling faces.  There were our two children, our two grandchildren, our son's girlfriend, our son-in-law, our family dog, and my mother.  It had been difficult thinking about how to get Mom there.  How would we pack all the food, the presents, the dog and five people in one car?  We decided that we would take two cars.  Problem solved!  Now another issue: could Mom navigate her walker around the house?  Could she manage to last the entire day and evening?  Would she be safe?  How would she deal with the car ride?  I was glad that it all worked out regardless of how closely I watched Mom, how I fretted about her dropping something, breaking something, doing something socially unacceptable.  I carefully regarded her choices of foods knowing full-well that she was incapable of making choices and might easily overeat, become sick, and end a lovely day with a quick exit for home.  I monitored her movements, her needs, her facial expressions to determine what she might require, what she wanted, and where she was thinking of going.  I was reminded of those days long gone when the children were babies and visiting was a chore as I supervised, disciplined, corrected, and worried over each action and reaction.  Once again I was thrown in the roll of mother to my own mother.  Yes, she was now a child -- a two-year-old.  

At the end of the day, as I helped Mom into her nightgown and under the covers, I asked her if she had enjoyed the day.  "Oh yes!" she replied.  I reminded her of who she had visited, what she had eaten, and the gifts she was given.  She smiled happily and burrowed beneath the blankets already closing her eyes.  I could see that she was tired.  Her mind had fallen asleep hours earlier.  Now it was time for her body to catch up.  I sat down with my husband, Skip and talked about the day.  I remembered to text our daughter to let her know that we had gotten home safely.  She replied that they were watching movies of old Christmas celebrations from other years when my father was still alive.  Part of me was unhappy to miss that but another was relieved.  I knew that watching old videos would only serve to remind me of how quickly things change...how soon our lives move from child, to adult, to elderly, then (all too often) back to child.  I immediately grew sad.  I thought about those fun times when my parents (even younger than Skip and I were now) would drive to our home to be with us and the children on Christmas Day.  Now, my father was no longer with us and hadn't been for some time.  Soon, Mom would also be gone.  She was still healthy and physically doing well but I had been warned that as Alzheimer's progressed her body would begin to shut down.  Was this her last year with us?  Was this the last family gathering with her?  I wondered how many bonus days we could enjoy.  I found myself thinking forward.  In June, Mom would turn 98 years old.  Would she still be with us?  I grew more and more saddened as I thought of the events that were so important to us...those events that brought us together in celebration.  Now, even if we still had Mom with us, it would be stressful, less satisfying, more work, riskier to take Mom out. 

People have often remarked when they see me with Mom that they wish that their parents were still with them.  I  think of that now.  How I wish that my mother...the mother who once was, could still be 'with' us.  The following  morning as I greeted Mom upon her awakening, I asked her if she had enjoyed herself the previous day.  She gave a blank expression.  I reminded her of the gathering for Christmas.  She replied that she didn't remember.  We talked about the food and the gifts and still there was no spark of memory.  I felt a lump growing in my throat.  I suppressed the tears.  Mom was not 'with' us on Christmas Day.  Sadly, Mom would not be with us for our birthdays, for holidays, for family celebrations, for events.  She would never be 'with' us again.  Yet, we could see her, touch her, hear her voice for now...for another day, another, week, month, year.  There was no telling how long.  I  told myself to cherish each second regardless of the stress, the worry, the bother.  

It is now the beginning of the new year.  I used to look forward with excitement and high expectations, but now I dread it for it brings forth a silent testament of how quickly things are changing...moving towards yet another change, another loss, another sadness.  I thought about this.  My attitude had definitely shifted.  It was like looking at the crumbs from the last Christmas cookie.  A season had ended and for the moment there seemed  little to anticipate with optimism. In fact, I noticed an insidious pessimism creeping and permeating my emotional well-being..  I realized that if not checked immediately it would soon become a debilitating depression.  

It was time to shift my focus.  That last Christmas cookie didn't only represent the end of a year and a wonderful, fun-filled season but the promise of more to follow. I would be baking more cookies before I knew it.  There would be more parties, more gatherings, more fun.  I thought about the saying, "When one door closes another opens" and felt a growing curiosity.  What might it be?  What did the new year hold for all of us?  I made a promise to myself that I would remember to celebrate the minutes and hours of the day, enjoying the moments and not miss a thing.  Even as I was thinking this, I noticed my mother walking over to the counter for the third time in ten minutes.  She had forgotten she had already eaten her lunch and now she was sitting down looking for something edible.  She picked up an unlit holiday candle encased in a decorative glass.  It had been left within her reach and now she tilted it to her lips trying  to drink the contents.  When nothing came out she took her fingers and poked at it aggressively.  I watched in amazement.  I almost corrected her but thought that I would let it play itself out.  She tried again and again to taste the contents of the glass.  Finally, I called to her.  "It's a candle,  Mom.  You don't drink it."

"I know," she answered a little indignantly. 

 I could be angry and frustrated by this or I could find the beauty of the moment because it became something memorable...perversely funny.  Perhaps because I didn't want to cry, I managed to find the humor.  I made the choice.  I couldn't help myself.  Her indignant expression made me laugh. I took the candle from her and placed it back on the counter.  There was no question; she would try it again.  There was so much to fret about...or to cherish and remember.  Just like a Christmas cookie, I would consume it and enjoy it.  It was a fleeting moment but just like the myriad little things that occurred day after day,  I would dutifully record this and hold it as a part of my Christmas memories.