I pull myself out of my warm bed and shuffle in the dark towards the kitchen to make a pot of coffee – a must before braving the frigid morning air to walk the puppy. Dim lights from a holiday wreath blink from the living room wall and I realize I forgot to turn the lights off the night before. The batteries that power the string of lights in the wreath are from last year, replacing them is on my to-do list. I decide I like the softer, muted effect on the lights and I’m not going to replace the batteries just yet.
It’s December. That crazy time of year when my kids run on candy canes and sugar cookies, and each day they wake with the hope that an overnight snowfall will cancel school. They are 9 and 7 this year, old enough to know Santa isn’t real, but still wanting to believe. My son differentiates what he calls the “mall Santas” from the real thing – proving to me, and to himself, that he still believes. The season is filled with the promise of magic and the innocence of believing. We pack it all in, not wanting to miss a thing.
The December holiday crush can be overwhelming. There are family holiday traditions we must honor – trimming the tree, watching our favorite Christmas movies in pajamas, attending a performance of the Christmas Carol or the Nutcracker. Letters to Santa need to be penned and holiday cards addressed. Gifts need to be purchased and wrapped. As December pushes on, work and school obligations continue as if the month-long party did not exist. Family dinners, cocktail parties, and visits to Santa must be squeezed in and around homework, basketball practice, and grant deadlines. We find time for decorating cookies, making batches of granola to give to teachers, being a shepherd in the church Christmas pageant. No matter how tired I am at night, I must remember to stuff a small something into the numbered stockings that serve as our advent calendar, to move the elf from his shelf.
Despite the craziness, I love this time of year. I am fortunate to be close to my family and to get along with my in-laws. I like my coworkers and have a flexible work schedule that allows me to fit everything in. But not everyone is equipped to ace this joyous month. For your classic introvert, there is no time to catch your breath, no time alone to recharge and regroup. For many, the holidays can be a reminder of loved ones lost and of traditions long past. For some, the holidays can be filled with too much time alone, surrounded by familiar strangers. A new cancer diagnosis doesn’t wait until after the holidays, money that barely pays the bills in November doesn’t suddenly stretch to afford all the wishes that appear in December. I’ve always known the holidays can be difficult for many people, but I’ve never felt it myself until this year.
It is a holiday tradition in my family to bake and decorate sugar cookies at my Mom’s house. My sister and I did it as children, through college, and now as adults with our own children. My Mom is in her element with her kitchen full of people. She lights up as the noise, laughter and chaos grow. She doesn’t bat an eye as flour spills to the floor and red icing drips from the counter. Perhaps because my Mom does not like to cook, she has never been worried about the mess in her space – a trait she and I do not share. I’m certain her attitude is a big part of the fun as the kids feel free to create, spill, and glob on all the icing. As we make a mess in the kitchen, Christmas carols play in the background, the dog barks over the din to be let outside. My Dad watches football in the next room, regularly coming in and out to observe the fun and steal a cookie.
Last year was the first year Mom did not make the Royal Icing for the sugar cookies. Every year my sister and I make the cookie dough and help the kids cut out angels and snowmen with cookie cutters while Mom makes the icing. Royal Icing is a simple recipe of powdered sugar, egg whites and vanilla extract, a recipe Mom always knew by heart. She always makes a large batch of icing and then divides it into small bowls for us, each bowl ready for a different drop of food coloring. Last year she looked puzzled when I said we were ready for the icing.
“Oh, do I make the icing?” she asked with surprise. Happy to help, Mom accepted the new-to-her duty at once. I recited the ingredient list and watched as she retrieved a large bowl from a low cabinet, set it next to the powdered sugar already on the counter. But before she could get out the mixer or the vanilla, my niece asked her for a snack, then the phone rang, a package was delivered to the front door. After each interruption, Mom would notice the bowl on the counter and remember her chore. In that instant she would ask me again for the list of ingredients, at some point I wrote them down. Confused, Mom asked me where she kept the vanilla, if I had seen the mixer. I watched as Mom would start to make the recipe and stop, start and stop, again and again. Eventually my sister made the icing and Mom laughed about how she was no help to us at all.
“Good thing I can still clean up all the dishes!” Mom joked. The youngest grandkids echoed her laughter and my daughter called out, “Gram, you forget everything!” My Mom pulled my daughter close, kissed the top of her head, and smiled brightly at all of us. My sister and I exchanged a quick glance, the oldest grandkids did not look up. They knew what the younger ones did not – that Gram had Alzheimer’s Disease and her memory would continue to decline.
Our holiday tradition of baking sugar cookies is the perfect activity to share with my Mom at this stage of her dementia. With all the people she loves in the same room, she can share in the joy and fun. Being present in the moment is what she does best right now. Mom can no longer follow a simple recipe, but she cheerfully refills my cup of tea over and over. She shows me the Christmas cards sent to her from friends, taking her favorites down from a spot on the hallway mirror and bringing them over to the counter where I’m frosting cookies. As she shows me the same card for the fourth time, I smile and nod. I’m happy she can recognize old friends in the photos, glad so many of the cards list the family names so Mom can read them and remember.
After returning the cards to their spot on the mirror, Mom sits with my sister and me at the kitchen island. The kids have gone to play in the snow, leaving us with more than half the cookies to frost ourselves. My sister comments that the cookies Mom decorates look more like aliens than angels. This isn’t a result of her disease; her cookies were always the worst in the bunch. Every year she defies the holiday color schemes and gives her cookie angels green hair, lopsided yellow smiles and smudged red eyes. We can still laugh with Mom about her strange Christmas cookies, even if she’s forgotten the running joke.
I do not know what my Mom will and will not remember this time next year. She is the same person she’s always been, and she is different. My family is a constant source of strength in my life, but our roles are changing, the road ahead unknown. My Mom is still with me, and yet I grieve her loss every day.
This holiday season my mind is lost in memories, my joy hushed like the dim lights on my living room wreath. Thankfully, my children remind me to look for the magic on days the calendar feels overwhelming, days the meaning behind all the holiday bustle escapes me. If you see me out and about this month, forgive me if the conversation lags or if I skip out early on the cocktails. My thoughts are someplace else. I’m in the kitchen with Mom, telling her all the things only mothers can understand. I sip my tea and watch as she stirs drops of green food coloring into the Royal Icing.
