Crying Around The Christmas Tree
A sappy holiday post
Cue Staind because it’s been a while.
November was - for lack of a better term - a shit show. I spent a week in the hospital with my grandmother, visited family mourning the loss of a child, and suffered the death of our beloved rabbit, Bruce.
To quote more divorced-dad-rock, the hits start coming and they don’t stop coming.
I’m not entirely ready to come back to the blog. I’ve been overthinking what this first post will look like and how to re-enter your inbox.
The longer I wait, the more I question the right way to do it. Is it gauche to dive right back into a Britney book review? Is anyone expecting an explanation of where I’ve been? Did you even notice I stopped writing?
I’m ripping off the bandaid by sharing the condensed version of an essay I wrote in January. Work smart not hard, amiright???
This piece has been on my mind a lot as Mark and I prep for the first holiday season in our home. I wrote it right after the last Christmas we had at my grandmother’s - right before we found our house in Toronto and a few months before she moved into a care home. Even then, her dementia was severe.
Currently, I’m surrounded by her holiday decorations. The ornaments, wreaths, and candles are both beautiful and out of place in our house. I keep wondering how and why her Christmas tree is in my living room.
Surely she’s missing it.
These decorations belong in a different reality where I’m still seven, grandma is still grandma, and December still feels magical. They shouldn’t be the backdrop to this bummer blog post.
While in the hospital, I told my grandmother how excited we were to get a real tree. I showed her photos and pointed out some of the carpets and curtains that used to be hers.
“You would’ve liked it,” I said.
“I still could,” she replied.
And I looked like this:
Because even if she saw it, she’d never remember.
House Hunting On Memory Lane - January 22, 2023
Where will we put the Christmas tree?
Staring at the listing on my laptop, I tried to reconfigure the living room. Could it go in the back right corner? In the window? Beside the fireplace?
At least one of those is a safety hazard.
I was certain we’d figure it out once we had the keys. I’d already determined the best walking routes, pet shops, and coffee shops nearby. The house was as good as ours.
Offer night be damned.
This was the first house I fell in love with, but I had crushed on almost every property we walked through. I’ve always had the propensity to fall hard and fast.
Why would houses be any different?
To me, each new door offers an entrance to a different life. My imagination dips into them like a wooden stick trying gelato flavours.
Here, I think, is where the dog will love to lay.
Here is where the teenagers will sneak out from.
Here is where I’ll take up sewing.
The vision isn’t always optimistic. I look for the parts of the house that will become the most annoying: A jutted wall I stub my toe on endlessly, the hill I push the stroller up, the wood floors that creak when Mark wakes up to pee, or the stairs we fight over shovelling.
Since we started house hunting, I’ve pictured a thousand little lives based on each new listing:
I could be the quirky artist in the tall, pointy Victorian home. I’d collect vintage furniture, take up embroidery, and learn to make scones.
In the steel box, I’ll be the chic Torontonian with slicked-back bobs and a rotation of takeout trays I toss on my way to local underground concerts.
In the residential fixer-upper, I see book clubs, throw pillows, and cookie exchange parties. No corner is left without a knitted blanket or trinket from a neighbourhood friend.
Despite my imagination, I’ve been most drawn to places that resemble my grandmother’s house. Bungalows with wood floors, fireplaces, and space for a china cabinet in the dining room. Outside I picture the lilac tree, hydrangeas, and roses that I’ll plant.
In those homes, it’s always obvious where the Christmas tree would go.
My grandmother always turned Christmas into an event. She insisted on a big affair for our family of six, including Christmas Eve dinner, Christmas Day brunch, shrimp rings, charcuterie, a giant turkey dinner, and a yule log. She laid out the china and cooked all day before forcing us to dress up. As a child, I loved my fancy holiday dresses almost as much as I loved the heaps of mashed potatoes.
Dementia has clawed apart those traditions like the Grinch. My grandmother’s memory has been deteriorating for years, but so too has her ability to care. This year my mom stressed to make Christmas feel like it used to. We gathered at my grandmother’s house and played along as my mom jumped into the role of hostess. The whole time, Grandma stared into space. Not even the promise of an elaborate dinner could motivate her to shower.
Instead of a nostalgic holiday, we were caught in a charade for a woman who barely recognized the attempt. At 8pm, she excused herself to an early bed. None of us were fully convinced that she knew it was Christmas.
I’ve seen dementia described as a wobbly bookshelf. When the shelf shakes, newer memories at the top fall before the older ones at the bottom. The more books on the floor, the more confusing it is to put details back in order. Just when you think you’ve reorganized the volumes, more tumble down to join the pile.
My grandmother’s days of lining the top shelf are seemingly over - just as Mark and I are entering the next chapter.
As we’ve been shopping for houses, it’s occurred to me that my grandmother will likely never make her way through our door. She won’t be able to help us decorate for Christmas, go shopping for furniture, or help me determine where the tree should go.
Hell, she might not ever be able to grasp that I’ve become a homeowner.
And so, on offer night, I find myself staring at the listing and trying to imagine her opinion. Is this a life she would have been able to see for me? Would she like it?
I was still trying to visualize the holiday layout when we found out we were outbid. Just like that, one fabricated life unravelled.
The more we hunt, the more I think about the books that will never make it onto my grandmother’s shelf. She won’t see the home we buy, the kids we have, or any other milestones to come.
As sad as I am to have lost that house, I can’t help but think it was for the best. The least I can do is find a house that I know she would have liked.
Specifically, whatever home we end up in needs a clear place for the Christmas tree.
….I’m not crying, you’re crying.