The Last Christmas Cookie
a
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.
