An Empty Place at the Table

This is the week that will test me.  It will be our first Thanksgiving without my mother.  I am beginning to bake and cook now.  The aromas of cinnamon, apple and sugary pumpkin fill the air.  Suddenly I remember those moments when I stood at my mother's side and stirred bubbling saucepans filled with those same fragrant ingredients. She was in charge.  She lovingly taught me her secrets to timing and technique for the perfect Thanksgiving meal. I think back to holidays past and remember.  I think about the family and friends, the poignant moments, the special feeling, the excitement knowing that soon we would hear the doorbell ring and would gather with grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. They are all gone now save a few cousins who are thousands of miles away.

When it was time, when I had a family of my own, I began to make the Thanksgiving meal. Smiling through tears I recall my mother's comments, her teaching, her patience as I attempted my first Thanksgiving dinner.  My mother assisted, taking care not to intrude.  She had passed the baton. It was my turn to become the matriarch and she stood beside me as sous chef.  We invited new people to our table.  There were our own children now.  But always...always there was a place for parents. My mother and father graced our table for each of the holidays.  As the years passed (all too quickly) a place where my father once sat was empty.

My mother's role changed again.  She had Alzheimer's and as the disease progressed she was no longer my assistant. She became an appreciative guest, happy to sit at the table and proclaim that each dish was her favorite. All too soon, the shift occurred as my mother's Alzheimer's Disease erased her memories and decimated her thoughts.  Our final Thanksgiving was devoid of her ability to taste or enjoy the food on her plate.  She ate without tasting.  She sat without seeing.  She heard without understanding.  But still she was with us.  I could look across the table and see her smile, feel her presence, assured that she was still filling a place at the table.

But now, today, as I began to place things, counting out the dishes and the silverware, I shift everything over removing the space where my mother once sat.  I will miss her smile on Thursday.  I will miss filling her plate and helping her with her napkins. I will miss pouring a tiny taste of champagne for her.  I didn't know that it would hurt this much.  I didn't know that the emptiness would be so unbearable. My grief overshadows my memories momentarily and I struggle to regain them, to once again recall the laughter, the jokes, the cheer.

Through blinding tears, I shift my gaze to the window.  It is windy outside.  The dying leaves flutter to the ground and the autumnal colors create an artist's palate that is beautiful to behold.  Everything changes.  Seasons change, people change, lives change.  I am reminded of the beauty of cycles.  Birth, life, death, birth, life, death.  I witness it in the natural things.  Our magnificent oak tree stands as testament to nature's cycles.  Always...there is such joy as after the stark winter, the first leaves emerge: the promise of new life...the fulfillment of nature's promise.  Yes, my mother is gone but there is also a promise of new things, of new experiences, of new life on the horizon.  I dry my tears and return to my work.

I stir a saucepan full of cranberries and smile to myself as I remember my mother's suggestion to add a little more cinnamon. I am so thankful for all that she was and did for me: her little reminders, her teaching, her help and her support. There may be an empty seat at the table this year, but there will never, ever be an empty place in my heart.  It is full of her grace, her beauty, her love, and her presence.  It will be a happy Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving

We sit at the table with glasses raised in a toast.  Who will begin?  How will we express the things we are thinking?  

"Here's to our health and happiness," we say.

No. This is wrong.  I look at Mom.  She has begun to eat, paying no attention to the toast or to the fact that we are not eating yet.  She is oblivious to the purpose of the gathering of family. 

"Mom," we remind her.  "It's Thanksgiving.  Lift your glass." 

She smiles and obliges us with the lifting of the glass as she joins in.  Then we go around the table and tell what we are thankful for.  When it is Mom's turn she announces that she is thankful for being here with all of us -- a wonderful moment of cognitive thought and awareness!  

Skip sits next to my mother and helps her cut up her food.  I look over and give a silent thanks for him and his help, his patience, his willingness to assist.  Lately there is so much more work, more angst, more frustration, impatience, and disappointment.  We are both tired and stressed.  So, here we sit on Thanksgiving looking for reasons to be thankful.   Are we happy and thankful that Mom has Alzheimer's?  Of course not! Are we thankful that our lives are topsy turvy and that our personal freedoms are sacrificed:  to come and go, to spend time with others on a whim and at a moment's notice, to go out to a movie as we please?  Are we appreciative that our home has become littered with dropped tissues, with safety assists, with reminder notes, signs on doors, locked doors, removed hazards that might cause unsafe conditions for Mom, with locks removed from bathroom doors, with chips and dings in paint and wood due to Mom's walker banging around the house? Are we thrilled with the extra work, laundry, dishes, and errands for those things that Mom needs? Do we like watching non-stop TV to entertain Mom...TV shows that cater to her taste?  Is it enjoyable being on constant alert to Mom's needs, to any dangers, to potential falls, choking, wanderings?  My answer is not immediately apparent.

I question our decision, our purpose.  I consider the changes and the 'inconvenience.'  There are others who make the choice to NOT be inconvenienced.  Yes.  It is tempting.  But then I think about the value of having Mom with us.  She is a part of our lives.  Regardless of the things that are unpleasant, there is so much value to having her with us.  She is a connection to our past.  She is yesterday's memories. She is a reminder of our origins, the reason I am alive.  She...MY MOTHER...is why I am thankful.  Yes!  In spite of the myriad alterations we have made,  I AM thankful...truly, truly thankful.

As I put Mom to bed after cleaning up the dishes and taking a little break, thinking of the meaning of the day; I wish Mom a Happy Thanksgiving.  It has been a long chaotic day.  I know that she is tired and grumpy.  I am tempted to hurry off as soon as I help her get into her nightgown.  Instead I stroke her hair and rub her shoulders.  I tuck her under her covers and pull the blanket up beneath her chin.  I give her a tired smile but a sincere one.  She looks up at me and smiles back.  

 "Thank you," she says sweetly. I know that she appreciates the care she receives even when she cannot or does not express it.  

"You're welcome."  Again I wish her a Happy Thanksgiving.  She laughs that laugh that tells me she has no idea what I am saying.  She has forgotten the day.  She has forgotten the dinner, the toasts, the company at the table.  But deep down inside I think that she knows.  Rather than a conscious knowledge, she has a 'feeling' of being here, of being loved, of being cared for, of being safe.  This is my Thanksgiving.  She has someone to care for her.  Dear God, I am thankful for this day, this food, this family, this life, this woman who means so much to me.