And so the Christmas tradition changes and I take over my father's duties on Christmas Eve…
I sit in a chair directly opposite my father. I think he's having a good day because his eyes are pretty clear. We chat a bit, my mother and I. "Grandpa," Little Man yells in between, "I want to eat a cake with you." My father smiles at him and tries to answer in a controlled manner. It takes effort for him, so he just nods and swallows.
Parkinson's. K…disease .
I order apple pies and hear Little Man in the distance:'With whipped cream mama.' 'Mamaaaa. Do you hear me? I wants whipped cream.' 'Grandpa wants too.'
I look at my father, who is clearly taken aback by Little Man's screams. For a moment I wonder if it's not too busy for him, but I see him secretly enjoying it. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Table of Contents
It's almost Christmas and we have yet to agree on how to do it this year. "Dad, I'll just come back to you on December 24th. But in the afternoon instead of in the evening.” He nods and tries to formulate an answer under his breath. 'Nice,' comes out with difficulty.
Fine, I think. I see he appreciates it. "Dad, shall I ask if anyone can come?" He shakes his head gently. His gaze is directed to the ground. He seems overcome with a kind of shame. Or would he feel guilty about his illness? My mother wants to give the redeeming answer, rubbing his back sympathetically. "It's too busy for him."
I keep looking at him with concentration. First to his facial expression and then to his mouth. I keep waiting for his own answer. His jaws move sideways and I see him trying to produce saliva. He nods. I think he wants to indicate that he agrees with my mother.
Then he says softly and under his breath, "I can't pay attention to everyone at once." This hurts him. And me too.
There we are again with the three of us in the kitchen. My sister, my father and I. The preparations for our Christmas tradition have begun. We are thrilled. My mother takes out the hideous plastic bowl again. Because we're going for it again:our traditional family bowl.
First, the jars of cherries are opened. Then the rest of the fruit follows. My mother is already preparing the film. Policy Academy, our Christmas classic.
My brother keeps the couch warm, while my sister and I are still excitedly helping our father in the kitchen. I'm a bit on the fence about it because I'm just too young to get involved with the 'real' work. But I don't care at all. I already count the cubes of cheese, the toasts with brie, the liver sausage slices and the rolls of ham with pickle. And don't be aware that this feeling of excitement won't last forever. I still believe in the illusion that it will be there forever.
However, the snacks are never on the table for long. My brother loves them and likes to eat them one after the other. Not wanting anything, I slowly slide my buttocks off the couch. That way I can do better. My brother's jaws don't stop for a second. Clinging to the table, all three of us sit on the floor with the snacks within reach.
Years pass with the same ritual every year. Until we leave the house one by one. My father never obliges us and has no expectations of us. He understands that we are all busy with relationships, children, work, friends and other important and less important things. There is only one binding appointment he makes with us:every Christmas Eve we come and celebrate Christmas with him. That is our Christmas tradition. Snacks on the table, bowl served and presents under the tree. As of old. And if he's had a good year with his job, it's totally a tearjerker. Then there is also the 'known' white envelope. The envelope with a dirty sticky edge that we carefully open, curious about the contents.
He has just retired and regularly walks to the mall in the afternoon for an errand. One day he meets our doctor. They chat and the doctor asks him to come by sometime. Shortly afterwards, a hospital visit follows. I will never forget that day.
I'm calling him from work. “How did it go at the hospital?” I actually have no idea what he was going for. There is silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. Do I hear sobbing? My father, whom I have never seen cry?
“Dad?” I try. He clears his throat, breaking the painful sob. "I have Parkinson's disease."
It gets quiet.
I feel the ground being pulled away from under my feet. A slight vertigo overtakes me and I have to hold myself terribly strong not to burst into tears. My dear father. “From now on I am the patient ,' he says softly.
A few months later he asks me the question:'Can Christmas be with you this year?' 'No problem,' I answer resolutely. And that's how it happens:the whole bups over the floor and having a drink with me. I count again the cheese cubes, the toasts with brie, the liver sausage slices and the ham rolls with pickles. I now know that it is an illusion that this feeling of excitement will last forever.
The years pass.
My father withdraws more and more into himself, is often absent and even somewhat depressed. He also forgets more and more. We can all see it coming slowly:my father is being admitted to a nursing home. Sleepless nights, intense sadness and anxiety overtake us all. Together – as a family – we take our father to his 'last' place to live. My dear father no longer lives at home. It will never be the same again.
With my father in mind, I put his Christmas tradition continues. Christmas Eve I 'force' my children to be free to open presents under the tree with us. A smile on my face when I see how the children are busy with the cubes of cheese, the toasts with brie, the liver sausage slices and the rolls of ham with pickle.
-x-
Ievy
