‘Different’ describes our days, including our Christmas this year
Christmas for us this year will likely not be warm or magical or wonderful.
But I don’t expect it to be particularly difficult, either, at least not more difficult than most days these days.
Instead, I’d say Christmas this year will just be different. And why not? Different is the category for every aspect of our life right now. Christmas will simply fit the pattern.
I bought a 4.5-foot Christmas tree to decorate the corner of our living room where a ceiling-high tree has stood for all the years we’ve lived here. This new one sits on the coffee table I moved to this corner, away from the front of the couch where Evelyn stumbled over it several weeks ago. The fall brought a purple and beige bruise splashing across most of her upper arm.
It was a reminder of the trifecta of risks she’s living with: Parkinson’s that creates unsure footing, Alzheimer’s that causes unclear thinking, and a blood thinner that produces hard-to-control bleeding. We don’t need her tripping over that coffee table, especially if the fall would cause her to bump her head. So I’ve come up with this arrangement. It ‘s different.
Our different December
Different describes how we’ll spend the month.
We won’t attend any Christmas concerts, although Decembers in the past included at least two or more. There’s so much good music in Cincinnati.
Instead of Christmas parties, we’ll host a couple of brunches. Evelyn does better earlier in the day before the devil of sundowning leaves her unable to enjoy a crowd—or her meal—or my company—or a Christmas special on TV. Evenings these days are different.
Sunday I taught our Bible class and recruited one of our caregivers to keep Evelyn company during that hour after we had attended worship together at 9:30.
This is an example of how going to church is different for us these days. Evelyn still enjoys being there, but I’m realizing she just can’t sit through the three-hour combination of worship, a 30-minute break, and then the Bible class. So now we’re attending worship or class or both with help.
But different doesn’t mean we won’t have Christmas. We’ll listen to Christmas music, probably something new every day from YouTube or Amazon Music. We’ll look for Christmas TV that’s engaging enough for Evelyn and interesting enough for me.
We will go to church, but we have no thoughts of a late-night Christmas Eve service. Family will be with us Christmas weekend, and like always, we’ll enjoy the gift of a Christmas ham from Evelyn’s brother.
Really, I’m fine
It will be fine. And I want to add that I am fine. Last week’s rather bleak post elicited a score of concerned responses from friends—words of comfort, promises to pray, suggestions for local resources who can give us more help. Reflecting on the challenges I reported last week, I’ve come to a few conclusions.
First, the hubbub of a houseful for a long Thanksgiving weekend was likely more stimulus than Evelyn could handle. Next time I’ll plan time with her away from the group.
Second, her neurologist has suggested a drug to calm evening anxiety. We’ll give it a try.
Third, I have begun more seriously investigating care facilities following the advice of my kids to be prepared with as much information as possible whenever we would decide it’s time for a move.
Fourth, I continue to be grateful. “I know of no one with a richer support group than yours,” a friend told me on the phone. (He had read last week’s post and called to make sure I’m OK.) He’s right. This week includes lunch with a friend, breakfast with another, completing an interview assignment for Christian Standard, two get-togethers with different sets of Evelyn’s cousins, and a seminar on retirement planning that I can attend because a friend volunteered to stay with Evelyn. I’m certainly not stuck at home!
The first of two cousin gatherings this month happened Saturday, with Evelyn’s cousins from Toledo, Idaho, and Cincinnati, and her brother and his wife from Kentucky. We had a lovely time together.
And in the evenings when Evelyn and I are at home, there will be enough typical this Christmas to dispel the shadow of different. Besides, I realize sometimes different is good. My daughter, prone to find and share challenging quotes, posted this one Monday:
"If you were ready for it, it wouldn't be growth." – James Clear.
I’m resigning myself to face boldly what I may not be ready for: so much so different. And I’m praying the result for me will result in something good.
We’ll look for growth.