Last Christmas - a piece of writing

Hi folks,

Many of you will know that I nursed mum through her final six months of life before she passed away in April.  I've written a book about the experience.  This extract is, coincidentally, where I've just gotten to in the redraft.  It's Christmas Day.  Her last Christmas.

Sorry it's a little long.

*** 

            On Christmas Day, mum's cold truly came out.  Coughing, nose-blowing.  The cough was very loose now, though, and she said she actually felt like she'd turned the corner.  She said she felt better in herself, too.

            "Anyway," she insisted.  "I'm not going to let it spoil my day."

            Taking her time, she got herself showered and dressed without any problems.  She put on her best clothes, including her favourite 'special occasion' turquoise satin blouse.  I brought the table into the living room and laid it properly, and for the first time since I'd been there we sat down together for breakfast.  It was a traditional Christmas one, too.  Mum had some bacon from the joint, plus a sausage, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, with half a slice of bread and butter.  And I brewed up a pot of French coffee, served with cream and a tiny dash of whisky.  It was rich fare for her, but she ate it with relish.  We pulled crackers, chuckled at the terrible jokes, put on the paper crowns.

            "This is really nice," she said.  "Just how I like it all.  We ought to have some music on."

            I selected one of her Christmas CDs - John Rutter's Christmas choral one - and put it on to play.  Bright voices drifted from the speakers.  It was a nice day out, and the light from the east-facing window was radiant.  Daisy was sitting up on her usual perch, watching the proceedings with curiosity - the light twinkling on her whiskers.

            "Lovely," mum said.  "Perfect." 

            While we ate, we talked about old-time Christmases - especially at Weiss Road, when we'd all eat together downstairs in nan's back room.  She had a long pull-out table and a special cotton table cloth that only came out at Christmas.  The same one I'd used that morning.  There was a small hole in one place, which I pointed to.

            "Remember how that happened?"

            Mum smiled broadly.  "I'll never forget it.  Poor old Uncle Sid.  He really copped it off your nan for that."

            Sid was nan's older brother.  He was a retired bus driver - a widower who lived alone now in Surrey.  He walked with sticks and was in far from good health.  But he was always jolly and genial.  When I was a child, I remember us all going out occasionally on the Green Line bus to visit him.  Those trips always excited me.  A long journey, and having to use that special bus, which was always quieter and went through the countryside.  On what was to be his last Christmas, he came to stay with us in Putney and nan laid out a really grand table.  We had special crackers, too, with indoor fireworks.  Uncle Sid had lit his, but it fell over and burned the table cloth.  He was so upset about it - and so was nan.  She always intended to darn the hole it made, but never had.  So there it remained.  A constant reminder of the time.

            After breakfast, I cleared away and we sat down to open the presents.  Again, I'd not known what to get mum, but decided on something that was always popular - a fluffy, hooded dressing gown and some new slippers.  They were soft, flexible ones with thick woollen inners.  She slipped them straight on.

            "A perfect fit," she beamed.  "Now I can chuck those other ones."

            For me from her, there was a new black T-shirt with an image of Charles Bukowski, one of my favourite writers, and a quote of his:

            Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.

            Also, an electric tooth-brush, which I'd long wanted.  Mum looked at them.

            "Who are those from?"

            "You."

            "Really?  I don't remember getting those."

            "They were on the list I gave to Lynn.  I didn't expect you to get both of them, though."

            "Don't be silly," she said.  "It's the least I could do."

            She had some nice scent, and some daffodil bulbs in their own growing pot.  A new bird feeder to go on the fence.  Lynn and Russell had got her a few things, including the DVD of the new Dad's Army film.

            "We can watch that later," she said.

            There was also a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle from one of the grandchildren - a cathedral with an expanse of blue sky above it.  Lots of similar colours and complex-looking sections.

            "That'll keep me occupied," she said.

            I thought it certainly would.

            "Maybe we could do that one together sometime."

            She was pleased with everything.

            "I've done very well again this year," she said.

            "Good," I said.

            Some calls came during the morning.  Russell rang to say Happy Christmas and to mention that they were off soon to meet Nicole, Warren and the girls for lunch.  They were going out this year, to a pub nearby that was doing a Christmas Day special.

            "I'd like to have done that this year," said mum.  "Maybe next year, if I'm feeling better."

            "Maybe," I said.  We hadn't been out for her birthday meal this year, as usual, and I knew she always enjoyed those occasions.  "We'll have to do something in the New Year."

            Reg's wife, Shirley, also rang to say she was just off to church with my cousin, Vic, and his wife.  She was having lunch with them - her second Christmas without Reg.  She seemed fine.

            Then Phyllis rang.  She was off to Craig's for lunch.  Rose, his wife, had her own mother going, plus all their children and grandchildren.  It was going to be a hectic day, she said - but she was looking forward to it.  They chit-chatted for a while.  Mum said she was pleased with everything, and looked forward to the spring when Phyllis could come down again.  March or April, Phyllis hoped.  It was something else to look forward to.  I was so glad that mum was looking forward to things.  Giving herself things to live for.

            We had lunch a bit later than normal, but mum's blood glucose readings - which often went haywire when she had an infection, before even accounting for the rich food - seemed remarkably stable.  Again, it was a traditional lunch for her.  I'd cooked her a small turkey joint with stuffing, and all the usual roast vegetables.  I also did some mashed sweet potato, and her favourite sprouts.  Again, she ate it all, plus a dish of pudding and cream.              "Leave the washing-up," she said.  "You've done enough.  I'll do it later."

            We compromised on it in the end.  I did the washing, she did the drying.  It didn't take too long, anyway.    Afterwards, she sat back in her recliner and I poured her the small glass of sherry she'd asked for. 

            "Cheers!" she said.

            She took a small sip, then settled herself back comfortably.

            "That's all been really nice," she said.  "Just how I like Christmas.  I think I might have a little doze shortly."

            Within a minute, she was out for the count.  So I sat with a whisky (I'd bought myself a bottle of single malt as a personal treat) and took in the room.  Just like any other Christmas afternoon.  The tinsel and holly decorations.  The cards, on shelves and pinned to picture frames.  The tree, with it's baubles and other hanging ornaments: little parcels, small teddy bears, smiling snowmen, robins, a tiny wooden child on a tiny wooden sled.  The warming glow from the artificial fire basket. The vase of twigs by the TV with their strings of pinprick lights.   My hand-painted wooden sign dangling from them, too: Believe in yourself. 

            It was comforting to see it all, and to know that mum was happy.  And again, I felt the strong sense of needing to take in and treasure every last twinkle and flicker and moment of it all.  It was all so precious.  This time was so precious.  I took some photos of the tree and decorations with my phone and uploaded them to Facebook.  A lovely day, I commented.  The 'likes' and 'hearts' came.  Most people knew what was going on.  I wanted it all to freeze: to stand still, like these images.  I wanted these things preserved in amber.  The photos and thoughts were the best I could hope for.

            Slowly, the whisky got to work.  Daisy got down from her perch in the window and curled up in my lap.  She didn't do it that often.  But cats are sensitive creatures, and she always seemed to know when I wanted the company.  I rubbed her neck gently and she purred like a generator.  I could feel it vibrating through my legs.  Then she shut her eyes and went to sleep.

            And very shortly afterwards, so did I.

            That evening, after a small tea - "I've really had too much today, but I enjoyed it" - mum got herself ready for bed and we sat and watched the Dad's Army film. 

            "It's not the same as the original," said mum.  "I used to like Arthur Lowe and John Le Mesurier.  It's was always a favourite of your dad's and mine."

            It was funny, though.  She enjoyed it - though she dozed a couple of times.  It finally finished at just before nine, and then mum had had enough.

            "I'm going to call it a day," she said.  "And a good one it's been, too - thanks to you."

            "Mum, it's thanks to everyone.  As long as you enjoyed it."

            "I did," she said.  "I count myself blessed."

            With that, she got up and went to the bathroom.  I got all the usual things ready.  She checked her blood and got settled.  I kissed her goodnight.

            Then I sat again, alone, in the fairy-light glow of the room and had another whisky.  The light shone under mum's door for a few minutes.  Then it went out.

            And that was another Christmas Day over.