Guest post by Cecil Taylor
It was a spring day in May. Under hospice care in her senior living apartment, my mother Dorothy had been mostly unconscious over the previous few days. But on this day, with distant family visiting, she surprisingly perked up and chattered nonstop.
Addled with dementia, she started planning a Christmas party. Always the delegator, Mom described the desired decorations, the food options, and the guest list. The family humored her, chuckling a bit where she couldn’t hear.
With some impatience, she finally said, “Well, why don’t you get to it?” I suddenly realized that, for my mom, it was Christmas, and it would be her last one.
I mobilized the family to decorate the apartment. Soon I was standing on a step stool, stringing Christmas bunting above the curtains in front of her. The family wondered how much of the room we should decorate, but the task was actually small. Dementia had narrowed Mom’s vision, and her world was a mere width of ten feet before her.
That space soon filled with Christmas knick-knacks. A tiny tree with itty-bitty ornaments for the nightstand. A manger scene with large camels placed upon a display shelf. A string of colorful battery-operated lights twisting around her television.
As I tied the last red bow to gold bunting, my sister asked Mom about me, “Are you proud of him?” She responded, “Yes, I am.” It was one of the final sentences I would hear my mother speak.
Early in my caregiving, I had frequently tried to talk Mom out of requests like the Christmas decorating. I wanted to do things according to my logic. Over time, I gradually navigated her requests better, either reframing or simply ignoring those that would be harmful or didn’t make sense but yielding to ones that gave her agency and satisfaction without any damage. I stopped trying to please myself and began trying to please her more often. Decorating in May for Christmas fit into that category.
The day after decorating, Mom became unconscious and mute again, treading her final steps to heaven’s gate, surrounded by the emblems of her most cherished holiday. We had indeed pleased our mother by giving her one last Christmas.
We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves.
Romans 15:1 NIV
Through his ministry, Cecil Taylor teaches Christians how to live a seven-day practical faith. To that end, he writes and delivers original books, videos, podcasts, blogs, and more. He also writes for Chicken Soup for the Soul and Guideposts. To learn more, visit Cecil Taylor Ministries and Unison Parenting.
Tracy Crump dispenses hope in her award-winning book, Health, Healing, and Wholeness: Devotions of Hope in the Midst of Illness (CrossLink Publishing: 2021). A former intensive care nurse, she cared for her parents and her mother-in-law and understands both the burdens and joys of caregiving. Her devotions have been featured in Guideposts books, The Upper Room, and many other publications, and she has contributed 26 stories to Chicken Soup for the Soul® books. She also conducts writing workshops, produces a newsletter for writers, and does freelance editing. But her most important job is Grandma to five completely unspoiled grandchildren.
Thank you for a powerful lesson in loving well and wisely, Cecil.
You’re welcome. Thanks for your encouragement!
Thank you for sharing this tender story about your Mom’s last Christmas and sharing the lesson you learned of honoring her wishes and respecting her agency right to the end. This is a good reminder for me as I assist and support my youngest son in his journey with early onset Parkinson’s. Thank you for an insightful story.
Continuing to pray for you, Annette.
You’re welcome. God bless your son and your journey with him.
This story, made me cry, Cecil. Thank you again for contributing to Caregiver’s Corner.
Reading it again, it made me cry again, too, Tracy! I look forward to contributing more!
Christmas in May is a delightful way to honor a mother. What a lovely, encouraging story. Thank you for sharing.
You’re welcome, and thank you for saying so.
Touching story about your mom’s last Christmas. Glad you wrote it. Now you will have the memories last forever when others are forgotten.
Thanks, Eva. It’s a great memory to hear her pride for me in some of her last words. I think my sister was asking about my bunting work, but I like to think Mom’s answer indicated a broader pride.