Carol's Christmas Cards

I arrived in Fresno, California one week after Thanksgiving and immediately took Mom shopping for holiday cards. I wanted her to be able to choose them herself. Since moving into independent senior living the previous summer, she'd never felt less independent. I suggested Target, Barnes & Noble or hadn't I seen a Hallmark store? "I like that one," she said. "Let's go there."

We found the aisle with boxed holiday sets and checked out different designs, comparing number of cards and price per box, and which ones fit the advertised promotion.

She selected a pretty winter scene with deer, glitter and a printed message that aligned with her wishes to share the good tidings of great joy at Christmas. I stood back as she paid and cheerfully chatted up the cashier. Mom has never met a stranger.

That night, I slept with her rather than deal with the piles in the guest room that had been moved over since the recent sale of our family home. It had been many years since we last shared a bed, but I considered how happy I am when my own daughter sleeps with me. I slid under the sheets and rolled onto my side and placed my hand on her surprisingly small shoulder. "Good night, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too, honey. I'm happy you're here," she muttered before falling sound asleep. I tossed and turned, worried about the many reasons that brought me there.

Two nights earlier, my sister-in-law, Karen, called me in Minnesota to report on their trial run of Uber. She and my brother, Mike, were moving out of town in a few days and needed to secure reliable transportation for my mom in their absence. Though Mom lived on her own without assistance, driving had been taken off the table six months earlier by her doctor. Mom was certain she'd be driving again soon.

"It was a total failure," Karen said, sounding desperate. Mike had surveilled the entire process. Apparently, Mom had waited afterwards for the same car that dropped her off. Distraught, she called my brother. "Goober isn't here. Can you pick me up?"

"I'll be right there," Mike said. She didn't question how he arrived so quickly when he "pulled up" moments later. 

"I'll fly out early Thursday morning," I told Karen, promising to stay through the following week, grateful for my remote work and my husband's steady hand at running our household in my absence.

"You guys can focus on your move, and I'll be there after you leave so she won't feel so alone."

Recalling that my shipment of holiday cards had arrived from the printer that day, I packed them to bring with me. Mom had always sent cards but hadn't done so in years. Envisioning us working side by side, drinking coffee and talking, I asked if she'd like to send her own this year.

"I have to find my address book, but that's a great idea!" she said. I looked forward to turning this seasonal project into quality time together. Making new memories in her new home.

Mom presented as though everything was completely normal. But sharing a much smaller space than the house that I'd visited for decades, I noticed things that surprised me. For instance, her alarm at reading the standard inserts that come with prescription medication, as though for the first time. "No one ever gave me these before. I have a lot of questions for my doctor!"

"Ok, Mom. Let's make an appointment so you can talk to him," I said.

The voicemail on her home phone was full and she didn't know how to pick up her messages. I wrote out step-by-step directions and coached her through the repetition of listening to each one. She seemed to have the hang of it. But the next time she saw the flashing light, she looked bewildered. I understood that without me to prompt each step, those messages may as well be smoke signals.

My mom had been a registered nurse for more than 60 years. She had been taking care of others since she herself was a girl. A friend of mine once commented, "Your mom could run a small country." Now, I was worried about how she'd manage basic tasks like washing clothes and throwing out expired food in the refrigerator – both appeared problematic.

When I took her to her doctor, she asked the question most pressing to her. "It's been six months; can I drive again?"  

"Carol, we said we'd talk about it in six months," her doctor said, about to kick the can down the road again.

It was time to end this dance. I asked, "Doctor, is there a path that leads to Carol driving again?"

"No, there isn't," he said.

Afterwards, we went to a diner for breakfast. She sat across from me and I had never seen her look so small or so sad. "This is the first time I feel old," she said. For a woman whose strength had supported so many others throughout her life, she was shattered.

There was nothing I could do to give her back what she had lost. We cried together.

I now had a better sense of Mom's limitations. Clearly, I needed to rethink our Christmas card project and meet her where she was. I wanted her to feel joy – rather than frustration and loss of control – in this reclaimed holiday tradition.

Mom's address book proved elusive. What has she been using since she moved last summer, I wondered?

Starting from scratch, we made a list starting with family and worked through the concentric circles of friends. Then I sourced addresses from my own contacts, her smartphone, and we wrangled the rest through phone calls and texts. Finally, we were ready to begin.

I set us up at a table in a quiet corner of a common room. I'd write the person's name on a Post-it note so she'd know exactly how to write it inside the card. Meanwhile, I addressed the envelope. More than once, she said, "Remind me, who is [so-and-so]?" I responded casually, like it wasn't a big deal that she couldn't connect a name with a loved one she had known for decades.

I resisted the urge to check what she'd written. My mother had always had beautiful handwriting, but lately it – and her spelling – was atrocious. She completed a stack, and I handed her a sheet of stamps. After she finished adhering them, I noticed that not one was placed in the upper right corner. "Mom, they look like a kindergartner helped out," I teased. She smiled a little sheepishly but worked cheerfully, and with purpose, until we finished the job. Dropping the stack into a post office bin felt like a win for us both.

For the first time — possibly, ever — we were both present with each other throughout my visit.

We dined out often, I bought us tickets to see an Irish Christmas song and dance performance, which she adored. I took her to her favorite store, Chico's, to try on a festive black sweater with gold sequins that she'd seen in the new catalogue. It looked smashing next to her auburn-colored hair – her greatest vanity. Beaming at her reflection in the fitting room mirror, she decided to buy the whole outfit.

It was dark when we walked to the car, but the moon was full and luminous. We stopped in the parking lot to marvel at it together. So often, we had felt close by looking at the same moon from our thousands of miles apart.

On my last night, while watching television together, I told her that I felt more peaceful in this apartment than I ever had at the house. "Me too, honey," she said.

She had once loved that house, but it had become suffocating with stuff, painful memories that had eclipsed the happy ones, and the anxiety of projects that would never get done. Now, that was all behind her. Here, we could simply sit and watch "Heartland" together. She loved the "horse show" because she knew every character and storyline and never got lost.

I left knowing that my sister would soon arrive to take her home with her for two weeks over the holidays. My brother and I each had flights to return in January. Our only solution so far was to tag team regular visits and hope for the best.

Six weeks later, my mom had a hemorrhagic stroke. It happened while she sat in the same chair in front of the television. Thankfully, Mike was with her, but she never regained consciousness. 

On day two, we called family and friends to come to the hospital and say their good-byes. Overwhelmingly, after the shock of receiving this news, many said something like this: "But we just talked! I received her Christmas card. We were going to have lunch soon." I heard their relief that they had reconnected.

The next month, it was standing room only when more than 200 people attended her joyful celebration of life. People flew in from as far as Washington D.C. and drove long distances to attend. It was a huge turnout for an 83-year-old woman who had meant so much to so many. Repeatedly, loved ones mentioned having just heard from her at Christmas.

In helping her send out her Christmas cards, I had helped her say goodbye. Not just to friends, but to me, too. A week after I returned home from what was my last visit, I also received one of those Hallmark cards with the deer and the snow and the glitter. Her writing a reminder that life is perfectly imperfect.

(sic) "Merry Christmas to my loving families. Thank you fo loaning your my dauter. She has bing working hard at work as well a helping me. I would never complet things to help me. Love you all of you. I am blessed."

Megan Padilla has been inspiring readers to travel since 2000 and has contributed to dozens of magazines and websites as a writer and staff editor. She has lived in nearly every region of the U.S. and Canada and is entertaining living abroad with her husband in their empty-nest next chapter. Follow her on Instagram @travelswithmeg.
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