20. Twelve Days Before Christmas: Part 1 - The First Six Days
If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that my need is to wake up – in my home – feeling well enough to celebrate Christmas day with my family. As of this writing there are twelve days to go and I am going to do my countdown by documenting what I’m thinking and doing each day because let’s face it, these twelve days before Christmas will be unlike any that I lived before.
December 13th. Today was a really tough day. It followed a really tough weekend. I started the weekend by meeting with hospice, and then telling Hadley that her MammyGrams is sick and is going to die. (The news was delivered as gently as possible, but the reality of the situation is harsh, to say the least). I forced myself and the adults around me to put the sadness aside and to do the Christmas activities that I’d planned weeks ago, the ones that have become part of our holiday season.
The previous Saturday was spent hanging the staircase garlands and decorating Hannah’s and Hadley’s tree, (I watched one event, and heard about the other). Sunday was spent having a big breakfast together and making this year’s snow globes. The theme for 2021 keepsakes was woodland animals, chosen by Hadley because most everything we do is centered around that little girl.
When I woke this morning, I was exhausted from holding my emotions in, and had a bit of an emotional break when everyone went off to work or to school. I allowed myself one box of tissues, and when they were sopped through, I moved beyond the choppy breaths that come at the end of a good cry and tuned into a Hallmark Christmas movie — the one where a lawyer goes from stomping on her dance instructor’s feet one week to performing the perfect waltz on a massive stage in front of a packed audience the next week. I know what you’re thinking because I thought the same thing — Fat Chance — but it could happen. Right?
I mean miracles happen — especially at Christmas.
I would love a Christmas miracle.
Just sayin.
December 14th. I finished my final readthrough of Awake on Stony Beach and sent it off to my publisher — then slipped into some sort of funk and spent long blocks of time staring at a wall and drumming my fingers on the arm of my recliner. Whenever Tim came downstairs to check on me he asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m waiting to die,” was my response. My only response.
Each declaration received a different reaction from Mr. Wonderful: he sat across the room and tried to catch my eye, he offered to light the Christmas tree, he patted my head and kissed it (the kind of kiss that lingers with meaning), and on the last of his trips he offered me a cup of tea — the offer wasn’t received well — and the Figgies were declined.
A. Rarity. For. Sure.
December 15th. I woke in the same predicament — I have a terminal illness — but I woke with a different perspective. I called Donna and told her about the previous day, and after she asked about the health and well-being of Tim, she told me it was about time I let the depression breakthrough and wallow in it. I know she is right, but honestly, I’m afraid of going THERE. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to pull myself back, so when the funk pushes hard against me — I usually push it back — way back. And for the most part, I’ve had great success.
Late that afternoon, I rolled up my sleeve and got my Covid booster. A lovely young nurse from Florida (don’t ask me why) arrived at my home and administered the shot. During the fifteen minutes of observation time she needed to kill, we discussed touristy-type locations for her to visit. I suggested Faneuil Hall Marketplace, Hannah suggested she take a trip to Loon Mountain in New Hampshire. I’m not sure where the traveling nurse’s roads will eventually take her, but she cut our conversation short when the ding of her alarm reminded her that our time was up and there was someone, somewhere, waiting her arrival and their Covid booster.
December 16th. I woke with a really sore arm from my shot, but considering the pain I’ve been in lately, I laughed at the hot, bumpy area, and took my morning Tramadol. And Voilà! Thank you very much.
I had a very productive day writing blogs, and I bugged the crap out of Guru Jessica, my website designer and social media manager. She might have freaked out behind the scenes when my emails came rapid fire, but she attended to my requests with patience and perfection. The experience reminded me how much I enjoy working with her, and how much I’m going to miss her. Though we’ve never met, and despite our 30+ year age difference, we’ve become very good friends.
On a completely unrelated note, my appetite has been hit or miss lately — mostly miss, so when I told Mr. Wonderful I was craving a chicken and mashed potato dinner, he grabbed a precooked rotisserie chicken from Shaws, sliced the pieces paper-thin, whipped a few spuds, covered my portion with gravy, and put a dollop of cranberry sauce on the side. I forced myself to eat some of it — because he made it for me. When I handed back my nearly-full plate, my concerned husband said nothing. Then an hour or so later he offered me a cup of tea and handed off 3 Figgie cookies — which I ate like a champ.
December 17th. I met with my hospice nurse and my social worker at noon. By 2 PM, I’d signed the following forms: Do Not Resuscitate, Do Not Intubate, and Do Not Transport to a Hospital. Essentially, I, Sheryll O’Brien, admitted defeat to an illness I cannot conquer. That’s because I wasn’t given a fair chance at fighting this beast. There wasn’t a battle planned or waged, or a skirmish here or there because the enemy’s attack was full-on and a direct blow.
Those who know me know I’m a fighter. I show up for battle, any kind of battle, certainly medical battles. I’ve had my skull opened for a daylong brain surgery, and then reopened to stem brain fluid leakage, I’ve done the step by step of breast cancer, and did a few other surgeries here and there because there was a reason and/or a chance. This time, the only thing I could do was admit defeat, and that was symbolically done by my signing forms that removed any question of whether or not anyone should try to help me live. This process was hard. And when it was done, it was time for a Xanax — thank God.
December 18th. I woke to a crappy weather day. It was overcast early in the morning, and by noon a bit of sleet had moved in. It was just enough to make things slick outside. The conditions underfoot and on roads didn’t affect me because I wasn’t planning a trip out, in fact my last trip out of my home was December 1st – that was the day I went to the oncologist’s office and put a kibosh on a $12,000 pipe dream. And now that I’m swaddled in the blanket of hospice, I don’t expect to make another trip out until I make the final trip out.
I’m okay with staying in. I am very comfortable in my home, with all of the things I’ve chosen over the years to turn our house into our place, where we lived our lives and made our memories. It’s where I happily made mud pies with Jessica, and tossed a softball with Hannah during my enjoyable stint as a stay at home mom. It’s where I set up shop when I began writing grants for non-profit organizations. It’s where I set a formal office for my writing career, the one I dreamt about for decades. And it’s where I took lead opposite Tim in our very own production of the Bickersons of Wildwood. Mostly, it’s where I found my greatest fulfillment as the wife of Mr. Wonderful.
Still, it was tough being left behind when Tim, Hannah, Hadley, my sister, and my mother ventured off to see Santa travel the quaint streets of the lovely little town of Auburn perched high on a firetruck. Since I can no longer venture out or be left alone in my home, Jessica stayed with me. As soon as the group left she asked if I wanted company, then nodded and smiled when I said no.
“Call if you need anything, Mom,” she said as she climbed the stairs I no longer go near — the ones with the pretty banister all twined with garland.