Humbug

This has not been a happy season for me. Christmas always has been my favourite time of year—I go nucking futs with food and gifts and decoration—but this year if it wasn't one thing it was three conspiring against the season. I barely put up a tree, and candles didn't make it to the street-facing windows until the Monday before Christmas—the same day we finally got my mum's (artificial) tree put up.

Speaking of whom, for lo these past several years, my mother's short-term memory has been, at best, a sometime thing. Now her long-term memory is starting to fade. I suppose, at eighty-plus years of age, this is not so unusual. Still, even as her short-term memory began to fade, she could cleave to the simple, comforting truth that her recollection of times past remained razor sharp and spot-on.

Then, a few weeks back, I caught her staring at an envelope she had just addressed.

"What's the matter, Mum? Think you already sent them a card?"

"No. I just can't remember who this is."

It was addressed to my cousin, Mum's niece and namesake. Her godchild. The cousin who, this past June, arranged my mum's eightieth birthday party. When I explained this, she merely looked confused. She seemed to need a moment, but then nodded in assent. To be frank, I still am not certain she was convinced.

Nor am I certain she really knew when it was Christmas Day. Gregory and I turned up at her home to "have Christmas" about noon. She seemed surprised to see us, perhaps all the more so because we bore not only gifts, but the makings of Christmas supper. She needed a moment or two, but soon enough got into the spirit. Whether she recalls any of it today, or ever will, is another question entirely.

And Gregory is off to visit his other grandmother in Florida. He will return Wednesday, and did decide to stay here through Christmas, thank you very much, but the weekend was rather bland without him. Don't misunderstand: I encourage him to stay close to his mother's side of the family. I just miss the little bugger when he's not around.

Worst of all, I've been depressed and self-medicating with my drug of choice: chocolate. Not only does this play hell with my expanding waistline and ballooning weight, it exacerbates the bloody reflux disease. So I've made an appointment with a new shrink for January. I've no doubt I'll be back on tricyclics or something similar by this time next month. And weekly group therapy. And monthly private sessions. And, of course, fighting with my insurance...

Well, at least I have insurance. And money in the bank, a roof over my head, clothes on my back and food in my belly. That leaves me better off than most of the rest of the world, and I am properly thankful. So, to borrow from Dickens, as Tiny Tim observed, "God bless us everyone."