Christmas with Mom

I'm grabbing a quick cup of coffee in a nearly deserted Box on 10th Avenue before I head down to see my mom.  Jude, the boys and her family are planning a trip to the Opryland Hotel this morning.

My sister, Tracy, hosted our family at her house in Franklin yesterday afternoon to celebrate Christmas.  Earlier in the day, she and Alice picked up my mom from NHC Place and brought her over to Tracy's house.

The significance of the event in the context of our family history wasn't lost on me, given the relative certain of the continued decline of my mom's health.  I had to at least acknowledge the possibility that it might have been our last Christmas together, as a family, at least with my mom semi-cognizant of what was going on around her.  I hate to write that, but it's true.

For the first coupe of hours after we arrived, my mom was alert and in good spirits.  She sat contentedly in her wheelchair and seemed to enjoy interacting with her grandchildren, J.P., Joe, Kaitlyn and Matthew.  Christmas in our family has always been somewhat chaotic, particularly when it comes to opening presents.  You see, we're not an "open on present at time family," like Jude's.  We're an "everyone opens their presents at once" family.  Yesterday was no different, although perhaps a little subdued under the circumstances.

Resurrecting a tradition that my mom always acted like she loathed (but secretly loved), I tossed balled up wrapping paper toward her after I opened up one of my presents.  She looked up, surprised, saw me, then grinner ear to ear and laughed as she weakly threw the ball of wrapping paper back toward me.  For just an all too brief moment, the veil of sadness, anxiety and confusion that constantly envelopes our lives lifted and we reverted to our old Christmas selves.  Me, in the role of joker and prankster and my mom in the role of witting victim, laughing all along the way.  Just like the good old days.

Trace and Alice transferred my mom to the couch after while.  Unfortunately but predictably, the veil lowered again too soon, and I noticed my mom taking short breaths like she does when she's getting anxious.  I tried, but there was nothing I could say or do to help her settle down.  She no longer laughed at my jokes or the funny faces I made to her.  Likely, it had something to do with night falling or, maybe, she was just tired.  I walked into the kitchen and gave Tracy a knowing look and she nodded, got up, and began to wind down the gathering.  Within a few minutes, Jude, the boys and I were packed up and in my trusty 12 year old Yukon traveling north to our house in Nashville.  And Tracy, Gary and Alice took my mom back to NHC Place.

Not to be trite, but often times if you watch and listen, really listen with an open mind and open heart, there's a moment in times of sadness or trouble that you can learn from or that is uplifting.  I had just such a moment yesterday evening before we left.

As we were saying our goodbyes, I stepped into the kitchen to say goodbye to my sister's husband, Gary, and to thank him for hosting and cooking for all of us.  He stopped cleaning the kitchen for just a moment, looked at me genuinely and openly and out of the blue, quietly said a word or two to me.

"Remember to enjoy the time you have with her.  Even the tough times."  I nodded, knowingly and appreciatively, then gathered my boys and walked outside as Gary resumed cleaning the kitchen.

Gary lost his dad a couple of years ago.  His mom died this year.  He spend a great deal of time in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, helping her and spending time with her the last few months of her life.  "Gary knows of what he speaks," I thought to myself on the drive home.

And that's what I'm going to do, I decided, in 2018.  I'm going to try to enjoy the time I have with my mom.  Every single minute.