How Great Our Joy

Breakfast on Christmas Day this year at Mom and Dad’s was, delightfully, normal.

Last year, Mom was drawn and tense, and looked like she hadn’t gotten any sleep. It was true. The tumor on her spine had begun to hurt, and the worry made it worse. Even though it was Christmas, it was also Sunday and she had to go to church to play the organ for the service. She sat at the head of the table, sporting a poinsettia themed vest, unbrushed hair, and an expression of exhaustion and irritation.

My sister, Joy, had sat to her left; my partner, Rolf, to her right. Daddy sat at the other end of the table, happily talking about how good life was still going to be even if Mom didn’t survive, while Joy, who’s divorce had been final for only a few days, cheerily assured him that any new husband of hers would have to accept that Daddy would be living with them.

Watching Mama as this happened; I could also see Rolf’s pale expression of appalled shock.

Afterward, before Rolf and I bolted to spend Christmas Day with his family, I scolded my dad. He assured me several days later that there was no more talk of cancer or her death unless she brought it up.

__________

What a year.

Chemotherapy. Anguish. Fear. Broadway. Italy. Richmond. Bemmy evicted. Forever Plaid. WATCH Awards. Our 25^th Anniversary. Vodka martinis, gimlets, cosmopolitans too numerous to count.

And now: Christmas again. This Christmas breakfast was not rushed to accommodate a church service; both Joy and her son Russ are engaged to marry; and Mom feels fine.

What a year.