Last week I called my mother to tell her that Matt and I would be there for lunch on Christmas eve. I thought we would go, eat with them and then my parents could open their gifts. Matt and I would come home and have our Christmas, since I had to work the next day. Before I could lay out the plans to my mother she asked me "are you coming to get us and take us to your house for Christmas?". Taken aback, as that was not my plan, I paused for a moment. "That's what you did last year" she said. Then she added, "we really enjoyed it." Well, what was I to say to that? "No, I wasn't planning on having you here?" So, I said, "of course, we will be there to get you and we can have dinner at our house." And, then, as I always do, I speak before really thinking. "You can spend the night and we can take you back Christmas morning." My mother actually sounded excited (which she doesn't much anymore) replied "we would like that."
So, it was settled. I informed Matt of the change of plans. And being the trooper he is, he smiled and said that would be great. It isn't that we didn't want my parents here, quite the opposite. We just both know how it is going to go. He, being far more patient than I, can handle it much better. Even though I vow to, I always end up feeling short and then angry at myself for my lack of tolerance.
As dementia patients do, my parents live mostly in the past. And not in my past, in their childhoods. And nothing sets off my mothers long term memory better than a ride through the area she grew up in. As we are driving through Ossineke, Spruce, Lincon and Mikdo, my mother is reminiscing about life with a father who sheared sheep and an older brother who played football, and was, in her mind, the favorite of her parents. Of course we have heard these stories many, many times and can pretty much recite them along with her word for word. Not to be outdone, my dad throws in a story about growing up in Pennsylvania. But as his dementia progresses he gets stuck on the same story and by the time we reach home we have heard the very same tale about his father working in the coal mines five times. And, they both tell their stories in stereo. So everyone is talking and no one is really listening.
My dad is very comfortable in his little apartment at Turning Brook. He has a routine that he knows and it is very hard on him when you take him out of it. The problem lies in that my Mother loves to go out and very much enjoys leaving for a time. Compound this by the fact that neither will do anything without the other, and my mother is the boss. So, my dad has to come to my home when he really doesn't want to. He won't sit, he paces, worries about the dogs getting hit by cars, and tells us that we leave too many lights on. He gets up and checks to see if his coat and hat are available because he wants to go "back to that place he lives." My mom tells him over and over to sit down and be quiet. But he won't. He just walks around some more, checks on his coat and then tells us the story about his dad in the coal mine again.
So last night I suggested we go to the Christmas Eve Service at the Methodist Church. It is the church that my parents attended for their entire married life and the one I grew up in. I knew it was going to be a challenge with my dad. But, I figured it would be a distraction for a while and I was really looking for something that made me feel like Christmas. I had spent the last week feeling very melancholy about Luke and trying to be okay with the way things were now going to be. My son is grown and my parents are like small children. And the frustration was like a tight ball in my chest as I tried to tell my dad that we wouldn't be leaving for a while yet and he needed to take his coat off and sit down for a bit.
So we finally piled in the car and drove to the church. My parents hadn't been there since we moved them to Kalamazoo almost three years ago. I hadn't been there in I don't know how long. As Luke's dad's family was in Kalamazoo, we didn't come to Oscoda for the holidays while he was growing up. My parent always drove down to see us.
As we walked into the church the first person I saw was Mr. Hunt. He and his family are as much a memory of that church as the building itself. He was in his choir robe. I hadn't been to a church where the choir wore robes in a very long time. My last church was not traditional and so it was nice to see the choir lined up waiting to walk in during the first song. We all managed to get in and sit down in the last pew as "All Come all Ye Faithful" was being sung. I was sitting next to my dad who was belting the song out with all his might. I found myself with tears in my eyes as I looked around at the people who had been in this church since I was a little girl. I looked up at the familiar structure, remembering all the times I did the same waiting for that long sermon to finally end when I was a kid. Hanging from the beams were Christmas banners. And they were the ones our youth group made when I was in middle school.
And as we sang, I looked at the Advent tree and candle that were there every single season when I was growing up.
In fact, little had changed. The pastor was different but the Christmas message was still the same. I knew all the words to the carols that we had sung year there year after year. And for that moment all was good. And for that hour I felt more settled than I had in a long time.
After the service we went home and had dessert. My dad, not liking to vary from his nine o'clock bed time turned down the sheets shortly after. Soon the house was quiet. I thought about all the Christmas Eves I spent growing up. It was my favorite day. And, I imagine, one day, it will be again. Life changes and not always the way we want it to. My parents dementia will progress and this is possibly the last year that they will be able to make the trip to my house. My mother is becoming more physically frail. My dads dementia seems to be on the fast track lately. I tried to think of that but admit that I still became impatient and a little angry when they weren't excited about their gifts. Matt reminds me that they can't help it. And, I know they can't.
But last night at church was nice and my memories of my life growing up there are precious. Merry Christmas to everyone there who is a huge part of my past. Merry Christmas Matt, I love you and the new memories we are making. Merry Christmas Luke, I love you and miss you. Merry Christmas to all my friends who make my life so full.
Merry Christmas Mom and Dad.
Thank you for a childhood full of warm and fuzzy Christmas memories.
