Kisses for Christmas as the gift of love remains
- col-leslie-pearce-keating
- December 28, 2022
- 569
All I could think of when I awoke that morning was, “Wow, does my throat hurt.”
With Christmas just a week away, I thought I’d dodged the bullet. I made it through the end of the semester finals. I made it through posting grades. I made it through the 2-day training for the new gen ed class I volunteered to teach in January. The tree was standing, the gifts were wrapped, the cards were written hastily. No, there wasn’t a letter enclosed or a personal photograph of the kids and my dog as usual, but I didn’t care. I’d even enjoyed a few parties that were such fun, all without illness. I should have known better than to think I’d made it all the way to the holidays safe.
So that Sunday, the 18th, I stumbled to the couch with my yogurt and banana concoction and a cup of hot tea with honey. My voice was shot, my ears were ringing, my eyes ached, and my head felt like a block of ice. A short while later, I awoke to the phone. It was my weekly Zoom call with Mom from Shepherd of the Valley in Boardman.
I was both thrilled and overwhelmed when I saw Mom sitting in a semi-erect posture, her eyes fixed on the I-Pad screen. I croaked out, “HI, Mom. It’s so great to see you.”
It’s been a long time since Mom has known me. Once In a while, she will nod if I ask if she knows me, but she does not know that I decorated the Christmas tree in her room or even that I am her daughter. Instead, I tried to reframe this conversation with a gentle, “Hello Catherine.”
I noticed her white pixie cock to one side at the sound of my voice. I noticed that her eyes were a tad less vacant. I noticed that she was able to speak in sentences, something I’d not heard for a long time. I began by making small talk with my 99-year-old parent. How had she been? Was she enjoying her Christmas tree? How was lunch? Again, the vacant stare.
I have a system I’ve created to try to connect with her: I tell her the one-liners only our family knows. I repeat old addresses and phone numbers. I name her brothers, and talk about my own brother and sister. She gave no response. Often, she does. I did notice, however, that if I called her Mom, she looked agitated.
So then I resorted to my secret weapon: music. I sang 2 songs in Slovak. I sang a few songs in English, like “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” which sparked a spoken response.
“I like that last one. Did you make it up just now?”
“No, Catherine. That is an old song.” She shook her head and retreated.
I don’t know if it was my faltering voice, thick with illness, or if it was the absent look on her face as she studied me, but something in me broke open. Maybe it was the tree glittering by my window and memories of Christmases past, but suddenly, I was weeping like a small child whose balloon just escaped their clutching fist at the fair.
That seemed to trigger her. “Why are you crying?”
I just looked at her as I said, “Because you are the first person I ever loved. And you kissed me a thousand times in my life. And because I always kiss your hair in rapid succession when I visit. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 kisses for Mommy. And because when you are someone’s mom you are nearly famous, cause that child you raised never forgets you, and she tells her children stories about you that they will remember when their own mother is gone. And you are still my mom even if you don’t remember me, and I love you so fiercely that my heart breaks.”
Again, I began to cry. I think it was the illness that stole my composure, and her sweet face unlined by worry since dementia had stolen her mind.
She was still just staring at me.
“It’s Christmas, Mom. And Jesus was born in a barn, in a stall. His crib was the manger where the farmers fed their animals. And his mother, Mary was just a young girl, about 14 or 15. But he loved her like I love you.”
I heard a ticking sound then, so I looked up. She was throwing me kisses.
No, Mom didn’t know who I was. And she wasn’t even aware of who she was. But I love her, and I guess in some recess of her mind she loves me, too. And nothing, simply nothing else seemed to matter.
Leslie Pearce-Keating can be emailed at leslieannpearce@gmail.com.