Ho Ho Ho. Still alive.
It’s been a long time. Too long. I don’t get here much. Hardly at all. Another year has gone by. It's Christmas, and I am at my grandmother's house for the holiday. I'll be here until Thursday.
I'm working for my brother-in-law 2 days a week, making the 160mi/one way trip every week, but it's wearing on me. I have 3 elderly patients left, including Ron, but once they are gone, I am done with home care. I meant it when I said, I need my life to be about the living and not the dying.
There’s too much and not enough, and I should just shut up and be happy for all I have. And I am. I am so grateful for all the blessings I’ve been given, and I know there are people out there who have it MUCH worse than I do.
But nothing changes the fact that I really don’t want to be here at my grandmother’s. I hate this house. I’ve hated it for years. The bed is terrible and no amount of memory foam mattress topper seems to make a difference. Two nights sleeping on it and my neck and back are screaming obscenities at me.
It doesn’t change the fact that I’m not allowed to bathe here because my “hair is too long” and “clogs her drains,” and my “splashing in the shower” is why the 40-yr old wallpaper in the bathroom is peeling. I washed my hair in the basement sink and gave myself a 3-point rag bath. It’s freezing down there, and filthy. Merry Christmas.
Mark’s not allowed to wash at all. He’s too hairy, period. We’re going to a friend’s apartment later today, and he’ll shower there, but it’s intolerable.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be home. Of course, if I was home, that would mean my grandmother is dead. Which isn’t too far off considering she’s 98, but still… I feel guilty.
I should *want* to be here. I should be glad that I am here with my mom and grandma for Christmas. My grandpa is gone. Mark’s grandparents are gone. His mom is gone. My dad’s gone. I should hold close the family I have left.
But I don’t. We aren’t a close family. I don’t have happy memories of good times at the holidays. The closest I have are the memories of Christmas Eve at my Aunt Marge’s when all the aunts and cousins would get together at her house for the Feast of the 7 Fishes. But that stopped decades ago when Uncle Tony died, and Aunt Marge sold her house. We don’t get together with her anymore. I haven’t seen that side of the family in years. I think the last time was at my Aunt Vi’s funeral. Happy times there. NOT.
I was lucky enough to be born into the Black Sheep branch of the family, where we’re shunned for something my grandparents did in the 1930’s. Well, that and my grandmother isn’t the most pleasant of people, and that’s me being nice about it.
This time of year, I see and read about people having get togethers with their families, and I feel like I am reaching for something that never existed in the first place.
I rarely saw my father. I have no memory of spending any time with my half-brothers at Christmas. My memories of this time of year are tinged with bittersweet.
Today I will make the raviolis, as I have made on every Christmas since I was seventeen when I took over from my grandma because her arthritis got too bad to roll the dough and my mom’s hands were too small to do it either. I’ll probably make over 100 of them by 1:30pm.
I LOVE to do this. It’s one of the few parts of this day that I really enjoy. It ties me to five generations of Italian women who made these for Christmas, and I feel close to them every time I roll the dough. It’s their legacy to me even if I have no one to pass it on to.
My aunt may or may not be coming. She doesn’t return calls, and I guess she’ll walk in the door at 2 if she’s going to be here. My cousin may or may not have managed to get a ride. She’s another one who’s M.I.A. We might have 3 people for dinner. We might have ten. Who knows? I’ll make enough raviolis for fifteen coz people always want some to take home. There was a time when my grandmother wouldn’t allow that, but *I’m* the cook now so what I say goes. Later today, we’ll bring some to Elias and to Mark’s dad if he’s in town.
I don’t know. Maybe next year we’ll be home for Christmas. Maybe not. No idea. At least this year Mom didn’t go into insulin shock, and we didn’t need to call the paramedics at one a.m.
And Mark is here. And Mom is here. And Grandma, even at 98, is here. And there is food and wine and maybe there will be laughter. And maybe it’s not like other families celebrate, but it’s how mine does, and there is blessing in that.
It’s 9am. The house is waking. It’s Christmas morning. There’s presents to unwrap, and food to make.
Best get to it. Be safe all.
I'm still writing fan fic. You can find my stuff here: http://www.fanfiction.net/~terribotta and here: http://home.comcast.net/~isilwath/Wordsmiths/
And you can find me on twitter: isilwath and facebook: isilwath theresa imparato