Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.
Christmas always makes me think of my Grandma Carolyn. She’d been on my mind a lot lately, anyway, as I navigated the past few months of chemo and radiation. She walked a similar path once, long ago, and there have been numerous times where I wished I could talk to her about it. I want to ask her how she did it. How she made it through, how she found herself again, how she smiled again.
Grandma Carolyn was my dad’s mom and, when I was little, we lived next door to her. I don’t think I realized at the time how lucky I was to be able to run across the driveway to go visit her whenever I wanted. We used to see her every day, along with Granny, who lived with Grandma. Granny raised my dad’s dad (who I never met, as he died before I was born), and though she wasn’t biologically related to any of us, I always thought of her as a bonus grandparent.
Like most families, Christmas was always AN OCCASION for us. Before Christmas even arrived, we’d spend a day over at Grandma and Granny’s, listening to Christmas music, watching Christmas movies, eating lots of snacks, and, the real reason for the visit, decorating the house for Christmas. Mostly, my sister and I sat around watching the movies and eating the snacks, while we tried (unsuccessfully, mostly) not to get in the way too much.
Eventually, my family moved to a different house across town. Granny passed away, and Grandma downsized and moved into a condo. But we still would go over and help her decorate for Christmas. And it was tradition that on the Saturday before Christmas, Dad’s extended family would all gather at Grandma’s to celebrate, hang out, and open gifts.
Some of my favorite memories are from those times. The fondest, though, was when my dad made my grandma a chocolate martini. He put it down in front of her, said, “OK, mom, now this is a sipping drink,” and turned away to start making one for someone else. A few seconds later, he turned back to see that Grandma had downed the drink like a shot, and was holding out her glass for a refill.
Grandma could be a real sasspants (it runs in the family). I remember visiting her once in the hospital with my dad, and her lunch was delivered while we were there. My dad helped her get situated, and then told her to make sure to eat everything else before she ate the cookie they’d given her. Grandma paused, picked up the cookie, stared my dad straight in the eye, and shoved the whole cookie in her mouth. Like, that is expert level sass, and a level to which I aspire each and every day (ask Joe).
Grandma died ten years ago, after a long fight with cancer, various other health issues, and the most painful of all to watch, dementia. We watched her deteriorate over the course of a few years. She was able to recall memories from long ago, but had no short term memory. She’d convince herself of the strangest things, like that she had two rooms in her nursing home. I spent numerous visits pushing her in her wheelchair down all the hallways, as she insisted her other room was right around the next corner.
Christmas is always when Grandma Carolyn is most on my mind. I can’t turn on Christmas carols without thinking of her. I still have some of the ornaments we used to hang on her tree. I can close my eyes and picture her house, decorated for the holiday. Garland wrapped around the entertainment center in her living room. Two stuffed polar bears wearing scarves and Santa hats. This annoying set of lights and bells that would go off any time someone walked by or made a noise. The main lights dimmed so the tree in the corner could illuminate the room with a soft, colorful glow. Sitting on the sofa with my family, all smooshed together because there weren’t enough seats for our big family, clutching a new toy or doll I’d received that day, feeling comfortable and content and safe and loved as we all laughed and watched The Grinch. That’s the feeling we’re all chasing, right? No matter how old we get?
After Grandma died, we still found a way to remember her on Christmas. It’s not particularly classy, but neither is my family (ZING!). My dad mixes up a big batch of chocolate martinis and pours us all a shot. He says a few words about Grandma and we all toast and take our shots (which are disgusting, but I’ll do it for Grandma).
I adore my family. We’ve always been close and, until we moved to Washington, that included distance, as well. For the most part, everyone lives within about 15 miles of one another in Ohio. Still, even after we moved away, we went home for the holidays. As big of a pain as it was, and even though it meant taking the red-eye and being a total zombie for a day or so, it never felt right NOT to go home and spend the holiday with family.
Then this year happened. This is the first year of my life that I won’t be spending the holidays with my family. And though traveling during this time of year is THE WORST, this is really just a cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been this year. If this were a normal year, a year without COVID, a year without cancer, a year where it would be safe and responsible to travel, we’d likely be leaving for Ohio tonight.
Instead, we’ll celebrate with family in other ways. We’ll open presents with family via Zoom on Christmas, trying to replicate being in the same room as best we can. And in two days, on the Saturday before Christmas like always, my dad’s side of the family will still be gathering, only we’ll all be joining Zoom from our own homes. I imagine a different kind of chaos than what we’re normally used to, but it’ll be similar. It will be loud. There’ll be a lot of talking over one another. Those who weren’t born into the family (ahem JOE) will likely get overwhelmed and need to take a break. I’m sure there will be drinks and snacks involved, though I won’t be doing any chocolate martini shots this year.
And I know that, in the back of all of our minds, Grandma will be there, the still center in a tornado of movement and noise, laughing and smiling at all of us from her rocking chair.
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