15 Degrees is Invigorating

In the past few days, here in Ohio, we’ve gone from rather balmy grey days in the md-40’s or 50’s to bright, sunny, 15 degrees. It’s days like today that I call ‘invigorating’ because it’s so f-ing cold you have to embrace the chill and have a positive attitude that warms the soul, or allow it to freeze your face, nose hairs and then finally, your heart. With this flip flop and 50 degree drop in temperature, I can’t help but think of the Bi-Polar Bear.

This isn’t the exact cartoon I remember reading when I first hear of the Bi-Polar Bear, but it was the same verbiage. In looking for this cartoon to share in this post, I ran across a LOT more terrible memes with real polar bears, awful drawings, jokes about support groups, and so forth. I suppose that was to be expected because it really is a clever joke. What I didn’t expect was finding BiPolar Bear in the Urban Dictionary.

Now, I know that anyone and their brother can post something in the Urban Dictionary, but I didn’t realize that this term had truly become part of our lexicon. Since I really don’t joke about mental illness, much less Bi-Polar Disorder, I don’t often say in polite company that I’m feeling like a bipolar bear today. Have to admit, though, that it did come up in conversation with my boyfriend last night. That was in relation to not having a whole lot of “get up and go” these past few weeks due to the greyness.

As I scrolled through all sorts of images and links I came across an Indie Rap Group calling themselves the Bi Polar Bears. I thank all of you for reading my posts, but I’m not so dedicated that I listened to their music in order to report on it. I think at one point the Beastie Boys were technically also an Indie Rap Group back before we used the term ‘Indie’, but there’s something about an Indie Rap Group made up of a bunch of white guys calling themselves the BiPolar Bears that keeps me from clicking the ‘Listen Now’ button. But, maybe I’m missing out on the best music EVER.

One positive side effect of having my mother under 24 hour care is that her Bi-Polar has really be monitored well. Possibly better than it ever has been. The nurses are very aware of her bouts of crying and sadness and therefore call her doctors for us. She’s gotten boosted meds when she needs them and decreased meds when she seems stable. Not having to rely on my mother to make the appointment or relay the feelings she has is wonderful. We’re all able to provide input and feedback as observers and participants to her highs and lows. We don’t have to rely on her remembering if she slept well or ate enough or drank water. Since someone else is providing these things and checking on her constantly, there isn’t any question about her habits.

Funny how things we consider ‘good’ or ‘bad’, ‘positive’ or ‘negative’  and ‘important’ or ‘insignificant’ shift throughout life, especially during more complicated situations. 10 years ago I couldn’t imagine considering it a ‘good day’ if my mother drank water or was able to remember my name or use the bathroom on her own. I just took it for granted that these things would happen. On the other hand, 10 years ago I wouldn’t have considered it a cause for concern that my mother had lost about 10 pounds in 6 months. I call that a good beginning to the year. But, now that has all sorts of implications.

10 years ago I would not have made it a priority to see my mother once a week because ~eh~ I had just seen her a couple of weeks ago. Now visiting her weekly is almost a necessity because I could miss so much of what’s going on with her. Along the same lines as the concept of regression, it would be similar to not seeing your infant child for a week. It could be that week that they start to walk or talk or eat with a fork (I know, infants aren’t supposed to eat with forks, but you get what I’m saying).

My mother, having a slew of things going on with her physically, mentally and emotionally, is a delicate machine right now. Arguably, we all are every day, but once you get to a point where you have to use the term ‘monitor’, then I think you’re a skosh more ‘delicate’. Not eating or sleeping is much more indicative of something concerning than when you’re closer to baseline. Of course, for her, ‘baseline’ is a lot different now than it used to be.

My point, though, is that I don’t like to take things for granted. The sunny day, the frigid air, my mother’s health and happiness and the fact that she may still know who I am.

Today, December 31st, is the day when people everywhere (except for folks that don’t share our New Year) re-evaluate their lives, their year, their jobs, relationships, their goals, their health. People use this day to reflect upon choices they made or didn’t make, places they went or didn’t visit, people they let into their lives or pushed away. We take this time to say, “Ok, Burg (or your name here), that thing you did was a good idea but maybe you could have done it like this.” So, let’s learn from our achievements and mistakes and either repeat them or not. History does repeat itself, so try not to make the repetition a bad thing. Remember Einstein’s quote about insanity. “Doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results”.

For example, I figured out quickly that I can’t use long sentences with my mother. Short declarative statements and that’s it. I also learned not to visit after dinner. Won’t make that mistake again.

And I learned not to be upset when she asks me where her daughter is. The nice thing is that I can easily answer her question!

Take this time to reflect on old friends you haven’t seen or talked to. Reach out to them. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Just find them on Facebook, shoot them an email, or even send them a text. Go out for coffee. Reconnect. Connecting is good. And for god’s sake, don’t make rekindling old friendships a New Year’s resolution. Those things don’t last. Just put it on your calendar or make a little note to email Elizabeth, John, or Jasmine. And then just let it flow from there.

I wish all of you a happy and prosperous New Year!

Always the Hours

I know that December 31st or January 1st doesn’t mean anything to the universe. It doesn’t actually end anything and doesn’t begin anything. Case and point, there’s a whole nation that has a completely different New Year date. It is all a human construct, months and dates and calendars and such. Nature understands being closer to the sun or farther away, revolutions and orbits, sun up and sun down. The planet couldn’t care less that something was called Monday or February or Summer.

Here in our little human lives, though, we need to put things on less grand of a scale. Can you imagine if we didn’t have calendars and had to tell a client, “I’ll get back with you when the sun is x distance from the northern hemisphere and just over Canada”. It would be reasonably possible to at least say I’ll call you tomorrow when the shadows are x distance from the tree in my backyard. But what if they’re in a different time zone?!

This isn’t a post about physics or telemetry or the speed of light. Really what I’m talking about is wrapping things up and preparing for the next round. We humans need to be able to have a basic time frame for our lives. Minutes, days, months, and years. We need to feel like we have some way to organize our lives but also a way to quantify achievements. I’ve made it through this week or this month or this year. In my last job, I usually scheduled my life 3 months out and told my self, “I just need to make it through April”. I can’t even tell you  how many times I’ve said that. These days I’m still scheduling my life about 3 months in advance, but I’m not just trying to “make it through”certain months. I’ve had a complete redesign of my mindset that I had been missing for so long. As many people have said, but Buddha put well, “It is better to travel well than to arrive.” It’s about the journey, not the destination.

For far too long, I’ve looked ahead to this or that date, this or that occasion, and completely missed what was going on today or right now. Of course I have goals and things I’m looking forward to, but there are all the days in between. In the movie “The Hours”, Virginia Woolf says, “Dear Leonard. To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away. Leonard, always the years between us, always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.” In her world, the hours were beautiful, sad, colorful and heartbreaking. She wasn’t always happy but she wasn’t always sad. But, she was right. You do have to look at life for what it is. But I don’t agree that you must put it away.

I love the movie, “The Hours” because I do feel like I get to live inside the head of Virginia Woolf. She was troubled but open about it. She more than likely suffered from Bi Polar disorder and, like many artists, exploited her illness while she could, and then, unfortunately, ended her life early. She used her manic episodes and depressed episodes to the best of her ability to write. And she was one hell of a writer.

My problem with “putting life away” though is that it almost seems like life, to her, was like a little package or pastry that you weren’t really allowed to enjoy. Like a woman on a diet. Look at what you cannot have. Acknowledge that you cannot (or, rather, should not) have it. And then cover it with your napkin and push it aside. As many people have found, diets rarely work. You cannot deprive yourself of something that you crave and expect this to be a lasting thing. The more you deny yourself, the more you want it. And then it eventually does you in. The next thing you know, you’re sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded in Little Debbies with chocolate smeared on your face and crumbs stuck in your hair.

And so it is with life, only it’s much more serious when the shit comes down, isn’t it? When you say that you aren’t worthy or cannot do it or should not do it, you end up believing it. Some just wallow in these self inflicted beliefs and then others start to fill with resentment. Both things will eat you alive.

If you spend your time dwelling on the past or dreaming about the future, or worse, denying yourself the future and apologizing for the past, then you’ve completely missed right here and now. If you’re going to “put life away”, I say you should make a jacket pocket especially for it and keep it close. Don’t put it in your underwear drawer or on the top shelf of your closet. Keep it close to your heart, for it is yours. And things that belong to you, things that are special and worthwhile and important, should be taken out regularly and examined. Daily, weekly, monthly and yearly.

Take a beautiful necklace, for example. Why have it if you’re not going to wear it? You should keep it polished up and then make a date to wear it somewhere. Who cares where?! It’s yours. Wear the damned thing and don’t apologize for doing so. But make a plan to do it.

As this month and this year come to a close and I start to prepare for the coming year, I, along with many people, take my life out and examine it. If you’ve accepted Facebook’s “gift” of your year in review, you’ll get a way to see your ups and downs as the internet sees it. I chose against this thing. I didn’t even look at it. First of all, I don’t put everything I do on the internet or Facebook. My Facebook wall is not the sum of my being. It may seem that my entire life is on the internet, but, I assure you, it is not.

Over the past 4 months I’ve had to create an “online presence” for my new business, Yoga Happiness. This has required accounts with Yelp, Google+, a website, a Facebook page, Yellow Pages, two blogs on WordPress that update these accounts, and some other things I can’t think of right now. I have to think about how I portray myself online because I am the owner and teacher for this business. I’m the sole representative. With that in mind, you bet your life I haven’t put everything out there for the world wide web to see. So, no, Facebook’s year in review is nothing that I want to flaunt. Here’s the other thing, because I don’t want to be a hypocrite, I only try to post positive things that benefit others. I don’t like drama, I don’t like reading about it, so I don’t partake. At least online.

If you were to look at my life through Facebook’s lens you would think things were AMAZING and that I was LIVING MY DREAM! I’m going to just let you keep thinking that.

So, I’ll review this past year by reviewing my journal entries and my calendar. Days and months go by quickly so it’s hard to remember when things happened, especially when you throw a major life change into the middle of it. Part of what I’ll review is my relationship with my mother and my experiences with her. Yesterday I mentioned that I constantly have to readjust the way I interact and communicate with her. I am going to use this end of year review to try to make a loose game plan for next year. I’d like to spend more time with her but also make sure I’m taking care of myself. I want to keep taking her out of her place so she can see the world, but make sure she’s not overwhelmed. I want to make sure that I’m treating her mindfully. I want to  make sure that at the end of the day I feel that she and I are both experiencing our relationship the best way possible.

Biologically she’s my mother and I’m her daughter. Dementia and Alzheimer’s can’t take that away. But, when you look at it in the face, you cannot define it anymore, really. Virginia is right though, I can know it and love it for what it is. Whatever that may be.

Have You Hugged a Bi-Polar Today?

This Primary Progressive Disorder has really become a big learning curve for me. I have to evaluate and re-evaluate my interactions with my mother each time we meet. Every day I find another website with helpful information. Here is a link to the Northwestern Medicine site describing what PPD is, what it looks like, and how to work with it. Here, Coursera presents a 5 week study on Living with Dementia and how it impacts those around you. A friend gave me the link to the Coursera class, and I have signed up to take this starting January 12th. It is FREE and you can learn at your own pace, for the most part. As my mother progresses, as I age, and as those around me age, having a better understanding of signs and symptoms as well as a game plan for living with it cannot be a waste of time.

Years ago, had I known there was a potential that my mother could be showing signs of something other than Bi-Polar Disorder, I would have forced the subject of seeing a neurologist much sooner. I know I’ve said this before, but she was always just so quirky and eccentric that I just thought her speech and thought patterns were “how she was”. There’s also something to be said for the gradual progression that almost gets you used to it. It’s like realizing one day that your kids are taller than you or that you’ve started walking with a limp. These things may happen so slowly that you don’t notice it as it’s happening. And then all of a sudden, one day, you do a double take and exclaim, “What the hell?! When did you start living here?!”

You know, though, even if I had realized there was something truly wrong with my mother years before we got her tested, there still would have been a throw down to get her to see a specialist. And there still wouldn’t have been anything that could have been done to treat it. I think the only aspect that could have been addressed and helped would have been the strain on other relationships. Mom and I have had so many fights over the years simply because I didn’t understand what she was talking about. Without nouns or proper nouns, it’s hard to really understand the conversation. Not realizing she had a problem, I would bluntly say, “Mom, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” This just made a difficult situation even worse. Some times I was pleasant and patient but many times I was frustrated and probably a little shitty about it.

Knowing earlier would have possibly helped her friendships, dating relationships, and even her employment situation. All her life she was afraid to discuss being Bi-Polar/Manic Depressive. So we didn’t. Friends and family just brushed it under the carpet and looked at each other with knowing glances. She didn’t want anyone from work to know about it because she was afraid of losing her job. This article in the Huffington Post by Sarah Klein has clips from Ellen Fourney’s memoir about her own experiences being Bi-Polar. In there she touches on what happened when she told various people that she was Bi-Polar. Over all the reaction of people, these days, tends to be surprisingly warm, welcoming, and understanding. Few people will back away slowly or try to disappear into the wallpaper. Being Bi-Polar doesn’t make you a leper, especially if you’re medicated. No offense to lepers.

Ah. Being medicated. Well, that relies on your being truthful with your doctor, now doesn’t it?

Here’s what I think happened.

When my mom was diagnosed YEARS ago, yes, things were terrible for anyone with even the slightest sign of mental illness. But, in the 50 years since then, things have gotten better for the patients. My mother, wanting to avoid stereotype & stigma, threat of being institutionalized again, and just wanting to be normal, completely put her head in the sand about the whole damned thing. She would go to her shrink and tell the bare bones stuff she could, get some meds, and then avoid the subject until her next appointment. She didn’t read the books. She avoided new articles. It was too hard for her to face it. She would rather ignore. Because if you ignore it, it goes away. Like the annoying boy at recess. Of course I just kicked him in the shins…or worse.

The problem, though, is that society started to become a little more accepting. Medicine started to get a little bit better. And more and more people starting finding out/admitting they had some form of mental illness, too. All the while, my mother was avoiding. She didn’t know this was going on in the world. So, by trying to be undiagnosed and, therefore, “normal” (because that was her logic), she became even more un-normal. I don’t want to say “abnormal” because having a mental disorder doesn’t make you abnormal. It means you need treatment and medication to feel “normal”. But, my mom didn’t get what she needed because she kept it all so quiet, even from her own doctors.

This, likely, even kept her from being social and from reaching out, as I mentioned in a past post. And that is sad. What she would have found out, had she reached out and allowed herself to be vulnerable for just a moment, is that she was not alone. Not at all. Especially being part of the art community! Holy cow! Being an artist, you’re un-normal if you AREN’T on some medication for being depressed, bi-polar, and so forth. I don’t mean to be flippant and make light of this. Mental disorders, depression, Bi-Polar, are all VERY VERY serious. So serious that they need to be discussed as much as possible. When people don’t talk about it, they think they’re alone. And that’s bullshit. Especially in the internet age.

These days if you type any possible combination of words into your internet browser, you’ll find someone who has made a You Tube video or blog post about that very thing. The world has gotten smaller. And, for me, that is a wonderful thing. For me, seeing the world as too large, too much to handle, too vast is daunting. We do all want to be special, we want to be unique, and a large world can make you feel like you’re just a number. But, by digging around you might find that the number you’re part of is smaller. Well, at least, within reach. The truth is that if you do reach out to see of there are others that are Bi-Polar, you’re going to find a very large number. But, put your city and state in the search, and you’ll find a nice little community right around the corner.

The way the world is these days can be very manageable if you just refine your search and be honest with yourself. First of all, you must allow yourself to be properly diagnosed and therefore treated. Acknowledge that you have this thing. And then say that this thing doesn’t have you. That is the difference. Don’t let it define you, but admit that it is a part of you. And then reach out to find others.

Just like my whole rant about reaching out to build friendships, you also do need to take a step to build a support community. Maybe they’ll be your friends, too. Who knows?

I’m no therapist and I haven’t been diagnosed with a mental illness. But, I’ve seen enough people suffering to know that they truly aren’t alone. Just take that first step. The joy of the internet is that you can start by being rather anonymous. Then, as you find others that welcome you in, you can give your name and tell them, “I like bagels & coffee, I watch terrible sci-fi, and I’m Bi-Polar”. I guarantee that this combination will jive with at least one other person out there.

We’ll Take a Cup o’ Kindness Yet

I spent the majority of my day yesterday amongst friends. The oddly refreshing aspect of these folks is that many of these people weren’t even friends with me on Facebook. These were people who I had known since kindergarten and first grade as the earliest, high school as the latest. They know many things about me that even I had forgotten. On the other hand, many of these people weren’t up to date with the events going on with my mother. It was rather nice to actually tell someone about her situation without them already knowing what’s going on. I’m not complaining because I created this. It is just a little strange for me to experience many people knowing things about me that I hadn’t told them directly. Especially given the fact that these past few months have been less than social for me.

One of my mother’s traits that I’ve written about is her lack of social initiating. She didn’t reach out to people, friends, in order to spend time with them, find out how they were doing, catch up on life. It seems I’ve picked up that trait, and it became quite apparent last night. I had realized that I hadn’t seen many of these people since high school. Even worse, during high school I never initiated friendship.

During one conversation, someone asked about this in more detail. Having never really thought about it, I had to talk it through. Finally, after quite some time of conversation, I realized that I never reached out to people to spend time, hang out, or chat because I was afraid of bothering them. There are only so many times someone can reach out and ask to do something before they stop because they realize I never seem to reciprocate the initiation. Change the tense of those verbs, though, because I still find that I’m doing this. I am still not initiating friendship, and as a result, I find myself without the social circle someone should really have for a happy and fulfilling life.

Over the past few months, many of my mothers old friends, acquaintances, students, and so on have commented that although reading about her is difficult, they’re glad to know where and how she is. Almost everyone has made a comment similar to indicating that she just “fell off the face of the earth”. They hadn’t heard from her, or even about her, for 7-10 years or more. And that is what troubled me the most.

I may be afraid of being forgotten but I cannot expect people to always make the first move to keep in touch. If I want to be remembered, I need to believe that people want to spend time with me but also I need to reach out so people feel that I want to spend time with them. In doing these simple things that seem easy for most, I will work towards making sure I don’t slip away into a dark oblivion if something were to happen to me. It is sad to me that my mother didn’t maintain her friendships with enough frequency to the point that people one day, years later, realized they hadn’t heard from her. I don’t want that to be me.

Parts of our conversations last night revolved around thinking of the other “kids” in our grade school class. There are some that we had to ask “What ever happened to…?” No one seemed to know. Again. I don’t want that to me be. I don’t expect to be the center of anyone’s universe or so interesting that people are keeping up with my every move. But, I don’t want to slip away into oblivion.

When going through my mother’s photo albums, there is a significant lack of pictures of any friends. The only person in her photos what wasn’t either married to her or biologically related was my god mother, Jan. That’s it. That is unfortunate.

2015 will be a different kind of year for me. I’ve already started doing things I have meant to do for years. Starting my own business. GRE scheduled to be taken. Another one of those things is reaching out and connecting with people.

It may be early to sing Auld Lang Syne, although I have read that it was really intended as a Christmas song as opposed to New Year’s, but it’s never too early to reach out to people and hope to mend fences or rekindle.

To Be Frustrated with me is to Love Me

On Christmas Day while visiting with my mother, uncle and aunt, I commented on how those you love can push your buttons more than anyone else. Looking at my mother, I said, “You know what I mean, don’t you, mom?” She looked at me with a little bit of recognition. I then said, “You and I can probably piss each other off more than any one else on the planet.” This was said after she had given me the attitude when telling me I wasn’t her mother. She felt that when I was telling her to look behind her chair at the poinsettias that I was “telling her what to do”. Technically I was telling her what to do, but not in that pushy “Do as I say not as I do” kind of way. I thought she might find the big luscious plants nice to look at! So, I, essentially, told her that she was pissing me off, because, clearly, I was pissing her off.

Of course I said that with all the love possible, but it is true. It always has been true. I’m going to speak for myself, here, but I tend to have less patience for those closest to me when you would think it should be the other way around. The one caveat to this is grandparents. I have always had more patience with my grandparents than anyone else on the planet.

In thinking about having gobs of patience, it makes me think of the nurses that take care of my mother. Here’s where I think my mother’s cocktail of issues is going to cause some frustration. By all accounts of this disease, she should not be around. This is supposed to be rough and quick and just raging through her. We were told 5-7 years at the maximum. She’s quite a few years into this and although her cognition is deteriorating, she is physically still going strong. Let me say right here that I am not complaining one bit. I want my mother to fight like hell to the bitter end and go out flipping this bastard aphasia the big fat bird. What I am talking about are just some truths and reality that have an impact on her daily life.

My mother is now 67. She has the cognitive understanding of life about in line with a 6 year old. Maybe less. She cannot dress or bathe herself. She cannot keep her room clean, although she can keep it tidy. Her balance isn’t wonderful, but she is strong as an ox. Physically I would say she might check out younger than she is.

Caring for a person with these qualities must be very mentally, physically and emotionally challenging. When you take care of an 80-90 year old with dementia or Alzheimer’s you usually have someone who is slower and less mobile. That isn’t the case with my mother.

I would imagine that although you do pour your heart and soul into taking care of these elderly residents with Alzheimer’s/Dementia, you know you’ve got a short time with them. You are able to give and give and give because you know they don’t have long. With someone like my mother, it’s a completely different story! You have to give the same amount day in and day out, but there are many more days than usual. There is a big potential for burn out. Thankfully the nurses take their vacations seriously. You have to get away in order to build yourself back up again.

I suppose that’s why it is tough for me to visit with my mother more than once a week. I need the time away from her. Here’s part of it, though, even growing up I didn’t spend that much time with her. I had school and friends and sports. And visitation with my father. And then college. I didn’t see her all that often in my 20s. She had a boyfriend and her own things going on. I had my stuff. So to try to see her now more than I ever really did back then is…hard. I don’t know that’s the correct word, but I did think about it for a moment. My mom and I have sort of always been “close” but not in a “hold me, momma, to keep the beasts at bay” kind of way. I don’t think we were emotionally close and we certainly didn’t hug or cuddle much. We’re close like sisters, I suppose. We shared a lot of moments between 1976 and 1994. And then I went to college.

I have the luxury of deciding when I’m going to visit my mother and how long I’m going to spend with her. The nurses that take care of her don’t have that luxury. They can choose to not have that kind of job, but they cannot choose to only spend one hour with her.

In talking with many people about their situations, I know I am very lucky that we were able to get my mother into this facility. Not just because it would be frustrating or difficult for me to attempt to take care of my mother on a daily basis, but because emotionally it wouldn’t really be a good idea. I’m too close to her to be able to take care of her. In a pinch, if Medicaid wasn’t an option, then of course I would do what needed to be done, but given the option I leave it to the professionals.

I guess this post is simply a thank you to the nurses that care for my mother and an acknowledgement that I know it cannot be easy for a lot of reasons. These nurses are surrounded by this day after day, minute after minute. They love these people like family because that’s what you need to feel in order to take care of someone to this degree. But the danger in loving someone is that you get close to them. When you get close you can get easily frustrated. But you also become more attached. These women, these nurses, just like the nurses that cared for my grandmother in her final years, are with her more than her biological family. They are probably closer to my mother than I am. I know that, I accept that, and, very honestly, I am glad for it.

My mother is a pain in the ass, but she’s my pain in the ass. I love her. And I wouldn’t want anyone taking care of her that didn’t also think she was a pain in the ass. Because when you feel that way, that means you also feel love. If you thought my mother was simply sunshine and unicorns, then you haven’t spent enough time with her and you don’t know her well enough.

The same will be said about me when I’m in a home. If you think that I’m sweet and kind and made out of cotton candy, then clearly you haven’t spent enough time with me.

Fair warning!

 

 

Cheeky Karma

“Don’t treat my like a child!”

This is my mother’s newest concern and greatest sense of frustration. She doesn’t want to be treated like a child. And yet she cannot do many things for herself. In my experience with the little girls in my boyfriend’s family, this is the same sentiment expressed by girls around the ages of 4-6. They’ve gained a better sense of the language, they’re able to move around on their own, they can climb and run and scream and build and draw. They usually aren’t wearing diapers anymore and can dress themselves. And they can think. And they realize there is a type of human that is, arguably, at a lesser stage in life than they are. These little girls are no longer babies. We call them “Big Girls”.

Being a Big Girl was a strange and wonderful age, and I truly remember it well. When I became a Big Girl and my mother allowed me to dress myself, I really came into my own. Stripes, plaids, polka-dots. Oh, how I loved polka-dots. Cords. Osh-Kosh. Buster Brown. Woe to my mother the day she put me in a Polly Flinders dress. It only happened once.

Not only was I Big Girl but I was also Grandma’s Helper and Baba’s Helper (my grandfather). I had a sense of purpose, a role, a job. You need something out of the cabinet? I’ll get it. I’m a Big Girl and know how to use a step stool to reach things in high places. It doesn’t mean I don’t need you, but I’m expressing my newly found independence, strength and courage.

Being a Big Girl meant that I didn’t need to be told what to do. Well, yes, I did, but I didn’t think so. When you told me to do something I was indignant, stompy and huffy. Don’t. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I am clever enough to just KNOW that I need to do things, and I’ll, therefore, do them in my own time. That’s part of being Big, right? Knowing that things need to be done, knowing how to do them, and then being responsible enough to get the thing done. As an adult you set your own schedule. You don’t have your parent to tell you what to do. Of course, as kids we don’t realize our parents are now beholden to a parent replacement called a ‘job’.

When I was a Big Girl, I felt moments of great pride after having done something challenging and then getting praised for it. I was proud of the fact that my mother and grandparents needed my help. I walked tall in order to seem older. I spoke strongly in order to be taken seriously. I mimicked the way my grandmother answered the phone and frequently got compliments from the callers on how grown up I sounded.

As long as no one questioned my abilities, I maintained my Big Girl confidence.

Yesterday when I picked my mom up I brought a winter hat and gloves for her to wear. The nurse brought out a coat for her to wear that I’m pretty sure belonged to someone else down the hallway that wasn’t going out for the day. I’m not going to judge or complain. It kept her warm. But, as the nurse tried to help her put on the coat, she got snippy and told the nurse not to treat her like a child. That’s when the nurse explained this new thing to us.

Then as I tried to put the winter hat on her head, she pulled away, got mad, looked at me like I was asking her to strip naked and told me directly that she wasn’t a child. I’m an ass and handed her the hat and said, “Ok. Well, put your own hat on, then!” She didn’t know what to do, so I had to just deal with the pushback when trying to put the damned thing on her head.

While we were spending time with her brother/ my uncle, I tried to get my mother to look behind the chair she was sitting in to see the two enormous poinsettia plants on the floor. “Look over here, mom. Mom. Look. Look here. Mom.”

“You’re not my mother, you know.”

Oh here we go. Although she is right, I’m not her mother, I know what she’s doing here. She’s pushing her independence. She’s letting me know she’s a Big Girl.

Over the past couple of years, she has been calling me ‘Mom’ either as a term of endearment and acknowledgement of the role reversal, or because she sees things I do for her that are maternal. Of course, yesterday when she was going through the photo album I made, she pointed to herself and indicated that she thought that person was me. So, she may, in fact, be confused about who she is in relation to who I am. If I’m a person who seems more mature and responsible and she’s the one that needs help, then she must be the child and I must be the mother. Clearly this was such a poignant thing that I included that in the description of this blog!

My boyfriend has felt as if my mother was acting like an 8 year old this past several months, but her actions yesterday were really more along the lines of a 6 year old. She sat and ate candy bars all day. She didn’t want to go home, she wanted to go run somewhere. She wanted to put on her own coat, hat and gloves. A couple of months ago, she would have appreciated my putting her coat on for her. Now she got mad and snapped it shut when we were trying to take it off.

I would like to think that I never went through that stage as a girl, but I’m pretty sure I did. As an adult woman I have many of the same tendencies, so how could I think that I didn’t express my independence and persistence 32 years ago. That’s the problem with raising a girl to think and read and imagine and learn and dress herself. She tends to actually do those things for the rest of her life.

There was a time when I wanted to have my own children, but as the years went on, I found more and more reasons for not. Generational karma is not one of the reasons for my not having children, but I figured it might be a nice thing to have avoided. It seems I was wrong.

I don’t have kids and now can’t have kids…and karma still found a way. Damn you! ~fist shaking towards the heavens~

Merry Christmas, Poophead

I kid you  not. Merry Christmas, Poophead is exactly what my mother said to me as I tried to get a goodbye hug from her this afternoon. When I asked for a hug because we had to leave, she played around with her new teddy bear, and then this other thing over here, and then the other thing over there, and then I had to ask again. Finally she put her arms out to the side in a ‘T’. When I went in for the hug, she didn’t wrap her arms around me. She just stayed with her arms outstretched. I said, “Merry Christmas, Mom” and she said, “Merry Christmas, Poophead.” Given the fact that “asshole” is a term of endearment, I certainly wasn’t offended. But I instantly knew it would be the title of this post.

The post I wrote the other day helped me vent many of my overwhelming feelings about the holiday as it pertained to my mother and her regression. So, in getting ready for today, I felt a little lighter of heart and mind. And a good thing, too, because when we picked up my mother for the afternoon, she was already about 1/2 a pound into a bag of bite-sized candy bars “Santa” (the nurses) had given her. I know there technically isn’t supposed to be such thing as a sugar buzz when it comes to kids, but my mom was really non-stop.

When picking her up I realized I hadn’t made the nurses the presents I had intended. This was a year of frugality, so I decided to make some folks my favorite scones…only gluten-free. I like to call these my Dirt Scones, or Sand Scones. You really need a pile of marmalade and a whole pot of tea in order to choke these puppies down. I didn’t read the Bob’s Red Mill bag until after I had pulled the last of three batches out of the oven. Apparently Xanthen Gum is a necessary ingredient to add to the gluten free flour in order to help it stick together. This didn’t have a negative affect on the scones so much as the shortbread. The scones had eggs to help them stick. The shortbread just didn’t have a hope in hell.

5 women in the family, both on my side and Aaron’s, got a large-ish tin of my Sand Scones and a few balls of shortbread. The balls were all I could get off the cookie sheet without them disintegrating. The cookie cut outs went in the trash along with the huge ball I decided should go in the fridge to chill in the hopes it would be a little more solid for cookie making. Well, it did become solid…like a cannon ball.

Lesson learned.

I hadn’t planned on making the nurses my gluten-free nightmare desserts, but I had intended on making them something. New Year’s. That’ll give them a week to digest the crap they ate this week. They’ll think they’re home free on the terrible food people give them with best intentions, but then I’ll come in with a box of my proper scones and shortbread and just cause them to start from square one on their diets.

Who starts a diet between Christmas and New Year’s anyway? You really need to start that on January 2nd.

I did a least thank the nurses profusely for taking care of my mother. I certainly couldn’t do any of this without them. Hell, if it were left up to me, she’d be sleeping in a dog bed somewhere in my house, curled up with her teddy bears for company. She’d be forced to eat the same crap I feed myself, namely tuna and kidney beans. One can only hope she’d be able to let people know when she’s hungry, like the cats do, because if you’re anything like my plants, that can’t cry for help, you’re lucky if you get fed or watered once a month.

Hey, man, you have to be hearty and self sufficient to make it with me.

We took my mom to my uncle and aunt’s place for about a two hour visit. My mom was clearly hepped up on sugar and/or well-medicated because she was in a great mood and didn’t stop talking. She was hilarious. When I handed her the photo album I made, she spent a lot of time looking at the photos of herself. There are photos of just about everyone in our immediate family with corresponding relationship labels. When she got to the photo of her dog Leebe, she first pointed to it and read “Doug Leebe” instead of “Dog: Leebe”. I corrected her, she looked back at the dog and said, “As good or better than a man.” I swear! I can’t make this shit up!

While looking around the dining area, she became intrigued with a painting they have next to the main dining table. It had a lot of reds and yellows, greens and black. Mom kept circling back and talking about this painting because it just kept catching her eye. She noticed the yellow shapes that looked like swords or the letter A and said something about “Churfly Wishballs”. Not sure what those are, but they were somehow related to this painting.

While looking through the photos in my handmade album, she came across a photo of me. The label said, “Burg Age 2”. When she saw this little girl she showed me the photo and asked, “Do you know who this is?!” as if she was challenging me to prove I knew who it was. I said, “Yes I do. What does the label say?” She read it out loud as if the answer was obvious, but I really don’t think she connected that little girl with me. I don’t think she associates the word “Burg” with the name she calls me. And likewise, I don’t think she looks at the word “Burg” and associates it with me, the person. Just like when she says the word “daughter” I don’t think she realizes that I am the daughter she’s talking about. She did that a few times today. She would talk about “her daughter” to me and then tell me something “Burg” had said the other day. I hadn’t said the things she reiterated, but that’s hardly the issue.

I don’t get upset or concerned about this. She calls me “Burg”. I think she knows me as being her daughter. She certainly knows Aaron. So, that’s still there.

The photo album seemed to be a good thing for her, so I’m pleased. The teddy bear my uncle gave her was an instant hit. It is named Weebie and she talks to it as if she’s had it for years. They seem to have already experienced a lot together. Just like old friends.

The blinking Christmas Light necklace he got her ended up being a hit but started off being a fire hazard, in her mind. It either stays on as a solid light, or they blink in unison, or they alternate blinking. For some reason, my mother thought they were hot or made of fire, so she was holding up the necklace away from her to keep her scarf from catching on fire. When she took off the necklace, she kept trying to blow out the lights. Finally she saw another lady that works the front desk at her place wearingthe same necklace. She’s not as concerned about it, now. But, now her new bear wears it.

When we got back to her room, I tried to get her to get set up to take a nice photo. I thought maybe she could hold her new bear and I’d sit next to her.

She held up her bear.

Mom. Put the bear down. We’re trying to take a Christmas picture. Mom. Put the bear down. Mom.

She put the bear down, but was concerned about trying to blow out the Christmas lights on the necklace.

Finally we were past that and we got a decent photo.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night (helped by a few vodka cranberries with Aaron’s sister).

 

 

 

What Does My Soul Look Like?

I like the little quizzes you get at team building sessions because they sometimes cause you to think about some part of yourself you hadn’t given much thought to, but they also sometimes ask you to share something with the group. One of my favorite questions is “Tell us one thing that people might not know about you.” I have lived my life like an open book, even before blogs and Facebook allowed me to share my ridiculousness with the world. One thing I’ve always said is I will answer any question you ask honestly. You had just better be prepared to hear it!

I’m not sharing any deep dark secrets, here. Well, not in this blog post anyway.

There are a few really close friends out there that know me fairly well. I may be an open book, but I’m not very social, so reading this book is rare. One thing people might not know about me is that my favorite music genre is Hip-Hop. When I say that, I always want to clarify and say that it is NOT rap, although I do like good rap every now and then. True, good hip-hop from DJ Krush, DJ Shadow, Common (years ago he called himself Common Sense), RJD2 (from Whetstone High School here in Columbus), Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and the like. I like music that incorporates a turn table and vinyl. I like to hear the scratch of the needle on the record as the DJs hand pushes and pulls it using all their techniques (or Technics). Hip hop uses samples, rhythms, vocals, and instruments from all genres. It embraces everything.

This morning I was doing my morning yoga practice along with the music genetically chosen by Pandora on my DJ Krush station. My yoga style is Hatha but more intuitive and goes with what my body needs at that moment. Due to the grey weather and pookieness I’m feeling this holiday, I decided that allowing my body to do what it felt was fun would help my mood. Yoga for me nourishes my body, mind and spirit. It’s not a thing I do at the gym with 30 other women trying to drown myself in my own sweat in order to feel like I’ve accomplished something. That’s what running is for! Yoga is a moving meditation for me. Funny, every time I type that, I accidentally type “medication” instead of “meditation”. I think both words work, here.

I do plan on running about 3 miles today, because it’s on my calendar to do so, and my calendar is my slave driver. After I finished my yoga practice, though, I felt like writing. My plan has been to write something Christmasy today and then give an update on the visit with my mother tomorrow. My plan is still to write something Christmasy, it has just morphed into something else, just the way I like it. Everything happens for a reason. Go with the flow but be aware of the rocks and branches that might be in your path. Be flexible enough to take a breath and then ease your way over, around or under those things. Use them to your advantage, you never know what you’ll find or see.

As I was getting myself set up to write this post, and importing the picture I wanted to share, I noticed the track that was playing on Pandora. It was DJ Shadow. “What Does Your Soul Look Like.” Funny thing, I’m pretty sure my soul looks like this:

This picture has always made me laugh. I’m mean, where do you begin?!

First of all, the numbers at the bottom of the photo along with Santa’s creepy face make me feel like this is a prison photo. “Heeeey leetle gurl. Seet on mai lap. Heh heh heh. ~cough~ I mean, Ho Ho Ho.” Where did my mother find this guy?!

Probably Lazarus.

At the bottom left hand of the photo is a sad little teddy bear looking all dejected that he isn’t needed right now. Believe me, Bear, I’d much rather be hugging you right now than sitting on this dirty old man’s lap.

I will say that his mustache and beard are rather convincing looking, but then, this was about 30 years ago. Back then it might have been socially acceptable to use real Santa hair in the damned thing. These days we’re about synthetics, man. Although his beard looks real, it probably isn’t. What is real is that bright red nose and cheeks. Drink much today, Santa? Can’t fault him too much. You might know my stance on children. I’d drink to get through the day, too. Or. I’d just get a different seasonal job. Elves are supposed to be assholes, so that would be right up my alley.

Now to the Little Burg. That face says it all. Yes, Burg, there is a Santa, but this isn’t it. I got that half cocked smile from my Grandmother. My half-smile. My social face. I’ve been making that face for years, it seems. If you see this face at the bar, you know I was forced to be in public. My face is just saying, “Ok, mom. Sure. But, This guy?!” Even then I wasn’t convinced. Not about Santa in general, because I still believe in Santa, but I mean about this creep. And I couldn’t even see his little squinty eyes peering at me sideways. You may be able to tell that even at a young age, I was able to cock my eyebrow. Yup, Santa, I’m giving you the eyebrow.

Also notice my little left hand all squished into my ribs like T-Rex there. What that tells me is that I didn’t even try to wrap my arm around this creep in a half-ass hug. It’s the one armed side hug, thing. What do you do with your inside arm? I’ll tell you what you do, give yourself the other half of this hug. At least you know some part of this isn’t lecherous.

So, Yes, DJ Shadow, this IS what my soul looks like. Just like this. Hilarious, unsure but going for it anyway, in a blue dress (?!), sorta smiling, not crying (at least not on the outside), playing along but maintaining my own, going with the flow. Little Burg, you are funny. What a gal.

You know what these stupid Santa stands need to do? They need to take a simultaneous picture of the parents watching. I would give $1000 dollars to know what my mother (and possibly grandmother) were doing right then. Laughing hysterically, is my guess. Those two were always laughing at something. And right now, if I were them, I would have had snot running out both nostrils. You can almost see in my face that I must be looking at a mother that was laughing.

Thanks, mom.

This Year…

To say this isn’t hard would be a lie. I run into people frequently, sort of glibly describe the situation with my mother, and their response is sometimes, “That must be hard.” Even just recently I met a woman and somehow got on the topic of my mother, and that was her response. Even when I said, “Oh, well, it is what it is”, she still said, “Still. I’m sure it’s hard.” I don’t know if she was trying to get me to talk more or get me to cry, but neither happened. I brushed it off and moved to the next conversation topic.

Like I’m doing right now.

My family celebrates Christmas on the Eve, so the day prior to the Eve, i.e. Today, is when I usually make all of the necessary preparations for our get together. When I was younger I might plan out what I was going to wear, I might wrap some last minute gifts…oh who am I kidding…they’re ALL last minute gifts that need to be wrapped on the 23rd. At least this year I finished my shopping on the 22nd. That’s quite early for me. So, today I’ve been baking.

My mother, as you may know, was never one for baking. She was one for setting the kitchen on fire. I’m happy to report that I didn’t need to call the fire department, although I did have to open all the windows, the back door, the front door, turn on the overhead fan in the living room, the fan above the stove, and light some incense. Nothing was “on fire” per se. The oven just didn’t like the heavy cream that was dripping to the bottom. I probably shouldn’t have used the pizza pan (that has holes in the bottom) for baking pastries.

While I was working on a second batch to go into the oven, I emailed my aunt and uncle to determine what we wanted to do about visiting with my mother. I suggested we do the same thing as on Thanksgiving. After lunch I’ll pick her up and take her to their place for an hour long visit, or so. She’ll get to see their lovely Christmas tree, open a few gifts, maybe have something to eat, and then I take her back. As part of the email string we discussed presents for her.

And that’s when I lost my shit. I didn’t think it was going to happen. Had hoped I’d be able to keep the bubbly exterior (because anyone who knows me would certainly use the term “bubbly” to describe me). But then I considered what our emails had really been discussing; the kinds of presents to get my mother. I even wrote it without crying. I just stated in a matter of fact way that she would love the light up jewelry or whatever from the drug store, and maybe even a little stuffed animal. She clearly loves little teddy bears and other things. I was able to type it out just fine. But, when I read that coming back from my uncle, her older brother, that he had already gotten her the one thing but would look into the stuffed animal, I broke down.

It was almost like I had an out of body experience and was looking back at this situation. Who’s life is this?! This isn’t the way things were supposed to happen. This wasn’t how my life was supposed to be! At 38, my mother was supposed to come over to my house and help me set the damned house on fire trying to make f-ing Christmas cookies! I’m not supposed to do this on my own, without laughter, without hysterics and snot. Well, there certainly were hysterics and snot, but not for the right reason.

This Christmas she’s worse than she was last Christmas. Last year she was able to get all dolled up and was excited to come out for our family gathering on Christmas Eve. Last year she understood what Christmas was and even made the comment about how she hadn’t gotten gifts for anyone. I told her she didn’t need to get anyone gifts because it was a time for being with family. Last year, she was confused about what to do with a wrapped gift when it was handed to her. Last year she was ready to go home after a few hours. But, she did hang out that long.

This year, everything is different. This year may be the last year that we’re able to actually take her out of the house to spend time with us. This year we’re shopping for her like you shop for a 6 year old you don’t really know very well. This year she won’t get to spend time with the whole family because she really can’t handle it. And, on some level, neither can the family. I know that’s shitty to say, but one of the things I promised in the beginning was to be brutally honest. It’s really hard to spend time with my mother on a holiday when you’re supposed to be bright and cheery. So, we’re going to limit the number of people who will spend time with her, both for her sake and theirs.

My family loves my mother. But, they haven’t seen her regularly over the course of the year to experience the changes. Throwing all of that on someone on Christmas, no less, is like the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. It’s a good cause, but quite a shock to the system. Selfishly, it’s also hard to be the daughter taking my mother around to visit with people who haven’t seen her recently. Being the interpreter or the buffer is an awkward position to be in. It becomes my responsibility to keep the conversation going when it gets uncomfortable, like when people don’t know how to talk to her or don’t understand what she’s saying. People look to me as an example of how to react. Is it ok to treat her like she’s 5? Is this right? Is this wrong?

I am very thankful that I’m able to spend any kind of time with my mother. I am quite aware of the possibilities of what this next year will bring with her aphasia, so whatever I can get, I’ll take. That’s me looking on the bright side of things.

Oh, and I’m very thankful that it was 54 degrees today. That made it rather pleasant to open all the doors and windows to let the smoke out of the kitchen. I’ll bet $100 that my mother has said that before…

With All our Tricks we’re Making Christmastime

I completed the Christmas gift for my mom. A handmade photo album with labeled copies of photos. It’s nothing spectacular, but hopefully it’ll do the trick. Selfishly, I want her to stop stealing other people’s family photos. Stick with our family! We’re good looking, photogenic and interesting! Also, I want to give her some shot of remembering our names. I’ve tried to make it almost interactive.

It’s a pretty fancy plain white three ring binder I purchased at Staples, and I’ve got photo pages from years ago when I was doing more of my own photography and worked at a McAlister Camera. Since I have about 10 photo albums in my grandmother’s hope chest in my living room, I thought I’d just flip through and pick out about 40 photos to copy. The photos range from her in high school homecoming to my high school graduation. Granted, giving her a book of pictures from when we were all much younger may not help much, but if she can at least recognize names and faces she used to know, maybe that’s something?

Here’s one page:

I figure since I’m the daughter, I get to put a lot of photos of me in there. Some labels just say “Burg Age 2” and some actually say, “Daughter: Burgundie”.

Photos of other family members have their relationship to her and then the person’s name.

Father: Stan. Mother: Carolyn. Parents: Stan and Carolyn. Brother: Stan. Nephew: Stan. Yeah, in our family, if you forget someone’s name, try calling him Stan, and you’ll have a good shot of getting it right. That was truer when my grandfather was alive, of course. So, as much as I might tease my ex-in-laws with Nicholases out the wazoo, we’ve got Stans out the wazoo.

Putting the pictures in a three ring binder, I figured she could open it up, take them out, and investigate them closer. She will more than likely try to take the pictures out of their little sleeves. They’re only printed on regular copy paper, so there is a risk of them getting torn, but she seems to still understand the concept of being gentle. She picked up the bunnies very carefully the other day, and she’s very careful with some of the vases and things in her room. Just because she doesn’t understand words doesn’t mean she has lost all ability to be a human. And thank goodness for that. With all the regression she’s going through, thankfully she’s not getting the energy and rambunctiousness of a 6 year old. Oh. That would be terrible.

In the photo album, I did try to load up on photos from different Christmases. Maybe she can still understand Christmas visually. It was, and still is, a big holiday in our family. Some of the folks in my family are religious, so there is a bit of Jesus involved but, for the most part, Christmas is an evening of celebrating each other as family. In years past, it has been a big fest of opening presents and eating. This year we’ve put a cap of $20 on any gift, and we each drew one name out of a basket. So instead of spending gobs of money on 12 presents purchased in a panic (I’m speaking for myself), we will be bringing just a few presents purchased with a lot of thought and good intention. This has lifted a huge weight off my shoulders this year as I am terrible at buying gifts.

This year, I’ve felt a bit like I was 20 something again, broke and hand-making gifts. Hopefully with the addition of 20 more years of experience my hand-made gifts are of higher quality. I can’t go into detail here because I don’t know if the person whose name I drew reads my blog! Super secret! Being able to focus on just a few key people has made my gifts much more thoughtful. I’ve been able to spend time creating and even more time wrapping. This is what Christmas is supposed to feel like, in my mind.

When I think of Christmas, there are a few movies that really epitomize it for me.

1) A Christmas Carol. I love Victorian England, and have loved it even before I knew about all things Steampunk. I love the cobblestone and shop fronts. I love Dickens’ humor; “There’s more gravy than grave about you.” And, I’m slightly smitten with Scrooge himself. He starts out as a closed off, cold hearted man who clings so closely to money even though he doesn’t spend it. At the end, he learns how to be a friend, how to love, how to feel, and he becomes a warmer man for it.

2) It’s a Wonderful Life. A long time ago the feeling of Christmas was found in my best friend at the time. She’s a beautiful person, an artist, a dancer, and extremely funny. We were driving around Columbus Christmas morning mis-quoting Jimmy Stewart. Everything we saw, we’d point at it and say in our worst Jimmy voice, “Merry Christmas you old stop sign. Merry Christmas you old Kroger. Merry Christmas you old dog peeing on a fire hydrant.” We got hysterical. Every Christmas morning, I do that very thing throughout the house. “Merry Christmas you old boyfriend. Merry Christmas you old buckwheat pancake.”

3) The Ref. Well, because I love holiday movies that involve dysfunctional families. I identify.

4) Polar Express. Because I still believe in Santa Claus and I love trains. My feeling on this whole thing is if a mysterious and awesome train rolls up in front of your house at midnight Christmas morning, GET ON IT!

I’m sure there are other Christmas movies that I could add to this list like Nightmare Before Christmas and The Grinch. Those movies are required viewing the day of Christmas, but I don’t watch them repeatedly throughout the season in order to get me into the Christmas spirit. I just love the music in those movies Christmas morning.

When it comes to music, though, my favorite is due to my mother. The Vienna Choir Boys. I have a Pandora station dedicated to the Vienna Choir Boys Christmas music. Listening to this music takes me back to our Christmases in our little apartment over my grandfather’s law office. She’s crank up The Boys and we’d decorate the tree.

Mom also had one of these:

I don’t know what you call this. A decoration? A candle holder?

This thing was magic to me as a kid. The heat moves the little cherubs around in  a circle. It was so special to get that set up, turn off the lights, and then watch it spin in its own candlelight.

Overall, my mother just made Christmas so magical for me. The way she magically got things into my stocking for 12 days prior to Christmas, the angels and candles thing, and just the overall feeling she was able to create. Clearly it has made a huge impression on me and has stuck with me all these years. I suppose that’s what makes me so sad about the fact that my mother doesn’t understand Christmas anymore. Maybe she just doesn’t understand the word. Maybe if she sees Christmas lights, if she sees a decorated tree, if she sees a present, it will all make sense.

But, if she doesn’t understand, that’s ok. Christmas is really just about being with family, right? So by being together on Christmas, we’re making Christmas, as Jack Skellington says.