The worst best Christmas ever

Our presence is our greatest gift

It was the worst Christmas ever until my mother died and redeemed it.

The holiday had started off so perfectly. My sister drove 9 hours from Indiana to spend the holiday with us. On Christmas Eve, we drove to Little Italy where everyone in Cleveland and his brother were buying pignoli and pizzelles at Presti’s bakery.

It was a party scene with people high fiving and hugging. We were there to pick up cannoli for a family friend who was in hospice. We knew Dodie liked cannoli, so it was worth the wait. She was my brother’s mother-in-law, but had been to so many family events, it felt like she belonged to us all. The cashier called out No. 6; we were No. 35, but patience is what advent is about, waiting in joyful hope, so we didn’t mind.

Then we drove to the hospice in Ravenna an hour away, singing carols in the car. I slowed down on the highway when the cars in front of me started hitting their brakes. Those red brake lights sent off a warning and I heard a little voice inside, or maybe a little Christmas angel, say, “Look up.”

In the rear-view mirror, I saw black. The car behind was barreling toward us. I hit the gas and tried to swerve out of the way before it hit.

BAM!

The car slammed into us at 45 mph. The driver never braked. Our cars skidded across the highway. It was a Christmas miracle no one was coming in the other lane, and that no one was hurt, just our cars.

The air bag had deployed in his car and the front end was smashed in all the way to the seats, but he was fine. The young man in his 20s didn’t apologize, didn’t ask if we were okay, didn’t care that he had smashed my car. He seemed angry at me, as if it were my fault he had been too distracted to brake in time.

While I was busy praying for the serenity not to slap him silly, a lovely stranger pulled over to see if we were safe. My sister chatted with her, and, not knowing if we would be able to get to the hospice, gave the woman the cannoli and asked her to drop it off at the hospice in case we didn’t get there.

I called the police and a state patrol officer arrived. He ticketed the other driver and called for two tow trucks. I called my insurance company. They couldn’t get me a ride or a rental car. It was Christmas Eve. There were no taxis or Uber available in Ravenna on Christmas Eve.

How would we get home?

My husband wasn’t allowed to drive; he had just had major surgery for Crohn’s disease. My daughter was hosting Christmas Eve dinner with her in-laws. I called my brother who lived nearby. Once the cars were towed, he drove us to visit his mother-in-law, Dodie.

And what about the cannoli? We arrived but it seemed the cannoli hadn’t.

Dodie was pure joy. We laughed about the wreck, the missing cannoli, and talked about old times for an hour when it hit me: That kind stranger wouldn't have kept our cannoli. It must be here somewhere. So I went down to the front desk, and asked the receptionist, “I know this is a strange question, but did anyone drop off any cannoli today?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s upstairs.” We checked a few nursing stations and finally found it. Dodie got her last Christmas cannoli.

After much laughter, my brother drove us to his house a few minutes away while I figured out how to get back home to Cleveland an hour away. My brother offered to drive me home when my daughter called crying. It was 9 p.m. and her youngest child, who was 2, wouldn’t sleep and was screaming like a banshee. When I told my daughter about my crash, she hopped in the car and brought her daughter along for the ride to pick us up.

On the drive home, I held my granddaughter’s tiny hand as we looked at all the Christmas lights. She had never been outside this late to even see stars. It was truly magical.

On Christmas Day, we usually go to the grandkids’ home to celebrate, but my husband was still recovering. The grandkids were planning to come over early, but they all needed naps, so they didn’t arrive until dinner time, so it just didn’t feel like Christmas.

And then there was my mom.

The year before, I had wanted to give her a perfect Christmas. I had taken her a tiny Charlie Brown tree to her apartment with little ornaments. She didn’t seem interested in the holiday at all. I had wanted Christmas magic with her, to bring her to my house, to watch movies with the fireplace going and the tree lit up. It was my fantasy, not hers. I wept the whole way home from that visit.

This year, when everything was unraveling, I had my mom all day. It didn’t feel magical. I didn’t want to be with her all day. Mom had slipped into a negative loop and it was tough to spend more than an hour with those angry stories on endless repeat. She came over at 1 and didn’t leave till 7:30 p.m. A sibling who had offered to help with her changed plans and didn’t show up. If you love a parent with Alzheimer's, you know that sometimes it’s a joy to be around them and sometimes, well, it sucks.

Halfway through Christmas I sat down on the steps in the back hall and cried. This wasn’t how Christmas was supposed to be: My husband upstairs asleep on pain meds, the grandkids at their house, my car in the shop for a month, and my mom here all day long.

Oh, it got worse. My sister ended up in the emergency room. She was still dizzy from the car crash. Maybe with a concussion. It would take her a few weeks to feel normal again.

So I did the best I could. I did what my Mom did with us when we were kids. I put on Christmas carols. I served her cookies. We watched White Christmas, It's a wonderful Life and Miracle on 34^th Street, all her favorites. She soaked up the twinkle lights on the tree, the decorations, the fireplace and told me this was the best Christmas ever.

We didn’t know it would be her last Christmas ever.

One none of us will ever forget.

Christmas can be messy. Ours didn’t get redeemed that year. It got redeemed the next year when she wasn’t around to celebrate it. That first year without her I was out Christmas shopping when a lovely necklace caught my eye and demolished me one simple word engraved on it: MOM.

And suddenly, it hit me all over again that she was gone. And I will never ever buy anyone a gift that says MOM because I don’t have a mom anymore.

But mothers are the gift that never stops giving. My mom gave me one of the best gifts, one I will open every single Christmas. My mom gave me her love of Christmas.

She always played carols all through December, mostly Perry Como, Andy Williams and Mitch Miller. She is the reason I know the words to every Christmas carol, and most every verse. She watched every Christmas special, from Charlie Brown to Rudolph, which is why I don't miss a single one of them and can quote nearly every line. She baked endless cookies, which is why I binge bake batch after batch.

She picked out special gifts for all 11 of us every year with no car, just a Sears catalog and dad’s checkbook. The last gift she ever gave me was her presence on that worst Christmas Day. She gave me her complete presence, all day long, and I gave her mine.

Presence. That is the greatest gift of all.

I didn't realize what a great gift that was until she was gone.

So from now on, and forevermore, whatever happens on Christmas, or whatever doesn't happen, I trust it will be the perfect gift.

It just might take a long time to receive it.