We win 2020. It brings a horrific diagnosis, but it does not take Mom from us.
Not wanting to miss a moment with her or my siblings who are all coming in from out of town, I clear my calendar to be an out of town kid with my sisters for the last week of 2020. We stay in our parents home together, gathering gradually until there are four of us.
The week is full of reframing stories, having positive corrective experiences, processing embodied trauma, and decluttering Mom’s things with her.
We joke that she has created a giant Memory game for us to play as we find the bottom of a cute little decorative box with her jewelry and its lid in a dresser drawer in the guest room. We help her sort and put like things together and get rid of what no longer serves.
We do her nails, she passes out jewelry, we wear her clothes, we put on fashion shows. We laugh and cry and stay up late working on puzzles. We sing and do skits and welcome her brother, our Uncle Roy, who comes to visit.
We don’t want to miss a moment. We don’t know how many more we have.
Childhood floods over me like a tidal wave. Long-forgotten feelings surface as the sisters stay up late into the night remembering together. I wake sobbing in the wee hours one morning, and a sister crawls out of her bed and onto my air mattress. She holds and soothes me while decades of tears and pain release from my body.
We gather for family meals at my brother’s house. His wife loves us all well with her hospitality. A friend prepares chicken barbecue and buys chicken salad and croissants for us. We do countless puzzles.
We rearrange furniture and rooms and claim mementoes. Mom sits with each of her children one by one and gives them treasures she has chosen to pass on to them. The grandkids who visit pour over the jewelry tray, choosing something that reminds them of her.
My eyes land on a pair of earrings that immediately brings tears, then sobs, and I add them to my pile to be curious about later.
Days begin with coffee and soft-boiled eggs on toast, which I learn how to prepare in the special waterless cooking pan. They end with gathering around the puzzle table or the keyboard or a bit of both. There is much singing and laughter and copious tears.
And we end 2020 with Mom still here.
The clock strikes midnight on December 31, and I sing the Doxology standing between my mom and uncle. This is a family New Year’s Eve tradition. Mom joins us. Our eyes fill with tears. We hold every moment holy, glad to still be together to sing.
January 1 arrives and no Word of the Year post publishes, though I have a phrase chosen. I plan to write more soon, but for now I am taking time to live in the moment and savor the time and cry over goodbyes with my siblings as we anticipate the hardest goodbye to come.
Happy New Year, Friends!