It’s Christmas. I’m infamous for hating Christmas. Want to know why I hate it? I think it’s a time where we are reminded that life is not perfect. The emptiness in us is most acute. The plight of those with less, most glaring. We also keenly miss those we’ve lost.
My sister Samantha couldn’t make our family Christmas. My Dad could not attend as well. This hit me hard. Everyone in my family has done more for and with Samantha than I. Samantha has done more for me than I’ve ever done for her. Samantha lives for her family. When I was told she wasn’t well enough to make our Christmas I was overwhelmed with feelings of shame. I decided Sam needed a visit from me. I went to see her the next day at an facility she lives in, and shares with many seniors. she’s not a senior, but this facility accepts and cares for my sister.
“I don’t know this brother.” an elderly resident remarked as we sat at the table.
“This is Tristram, he works very hard, he doesn’t come very often, but he loves me very much and I love him very much.” Samantha explained in my undeserving defence.
“I don’t work hard, I have no excuse, I’m just a fucked up person.” I said to myself.
I sat there for a while. But, as often is the case, I was emotionally shut down. Deriding myself with guilt, and robbing myself yet again of good quality time with someone who has more courage and strength than I will ever have.
“I haven’t seen my son in 6 years.” the resident continued.
“I think you’d look better if you shaved, you’d be handsome if you did.” She pointed out.
This made me grin, if she knew how little I cared about how I look, she’d of saved her breathe. In a moment of pure self loathing, her criticism was welcome, but my mind was on her son. Why didn’t he come see his mum?
“Does he live far away?” I asked.
“He lives here in Calgary.” she answered sadly. I saw the pain in her eyes. I can’t imagine an unrequited love quite as painful as a mother’s.
I wondered if my mum was alive, would I be taking her for granted? After all, isn’t it fair to say I take my Dad for granted? With my Dad though, I can’t honestly say he’d want it any other way.
So, it’s Christmas. My mind is on aging and the change that comes with it. I see the thing that scares me the very most. The end of my usefulness. I watch an elderly woman stare at a sandwich. I try to picture myself in that place, that age, but I can’t. If God permits or insists, I will be there one day. I have ideas on how to avoid it, but I know I should leave it up to God.
I need to wrap this up. I’m not a skilled enough writer to tie shame, aging, Christmas and emotional unavailability into a neat bow. I’ll just end it with this,
“Well, I should go Sam.”
“Ya, it’s ok.” She smiled.
I give her a hug, as I pull away she pulls me back in and gives me a kiss on the neck. She whispers, “I love you very, very much Tris.”
You see, Sam didn’t need a visit from me, I needed her. She knew what I needed to hear. I walked out of that building with tears in my eyes. Good tears.
If you read this far, thank you.
Tris.
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