Thanksgiving

Traditions and turkey

Pink Sky and Blowing Grass

Three years ago I was on island for Thanksgiving. It was the first time I had been state-side for the holiday in close to 30 years. It was a small and heart-wrenching time. It was the end of the pandemic lockdown in Australia and I was one of the few people on the plane from Australia to the US. I flew back to look after my father after my mother, his sole caregiver, had a stroke and was flown to the mainland on their 61st anniversary.

My father, ever the keen gardener, had planted potatoes in the late spring, along with some other staples. I think it speaks to both his condition (congestive heart failure) and his fortitude and optimism (although he floated the idea each fall that this might be his last garden but come the arrival of the new year and garden catalogues, he started planning for the upcoming season) that not all the potatoes got dug, the fall of 2021, and when the gardener who helped my dad told me there were some still in the garden, I dug a few up for Thanksgiving mashed potatoes. Turns out people at the end of their life and/or recovering from a stroke don’t eat much. Also turns out that it doesn’t matter, much, if you’re feeding three or 30 at Thanksgiving: it is still an all day affair to prepare the feast.

What I remember from that day, three years ago, was that I spent about six hours in the kitchen cooking all the usual Thanksgiving fare. I was tired and feeling resentful by the time my father made it to the table. Why weren’t at least one of my brothers here to help? By that point I think we had my dad on hospice with a “weeks-to-months left” time frame. Why weren’t they making an effort to be here? My mother was newly home from rehab and although her appetite was good, the stroke left her with difficulties swallowing. Another memory was just how little they ate. All that effort and hope and wanting to offer them both some sort of festive normalcy all for, seemingly, nought. My father couldn’t stay at the table long, he barely managed to eat any of the food he moved around his plate, before returning upstairs (thanks to the stair chair). My mother retreated to her room down the hall we had set up for her when she got home from rehab. I sat by myself at the table after they both had gone.

It was lonely and I spent most of the next few hours cleaning and crying. It was a horrible feeling being here and feeling so helpless. The last time I had seen my parents, in August 2019, they were both mobile and part of a community. Still active and enjoying their lives. In November 2021, those people were memories. And no matter how much I wanted to rally them, make them whole again, bring them back to who they had been, no amount of Thanksgiving food or good cheer was going to do that.

My father didn’t make it to Christmas that year. He died in the early morning hours just after my mother’s 86th birthday.

Making a traditional Thanksgiving day meal for my parents was what I thought I should do. I wanted to make this meal and memories for me and for them. Traditions mean something. Don’t they? What I didn’t know then, and am learning on the almost daily now, is my parents could not have cared less about a Thanksgiving meal. Both of them were struggling with so many medical issues that upholding a tradition was not on any priority list. Did they appreciate it? Yes. Did they want it? No. I wanted it because it’s what I thought I should do. When we are caregiving for others, especially as their abilities decrease, we need to make sure we are being motivated by them and their needs, not ours.

Would I have done anything differently for that Thanksgiving back in 2021? Probably not. But I would have approached it - mentally and emotionally - differently. It would have been an act of grace as opposed to a resentful tradition.

The next year, our first since moving to the island to look after my mother, I pushed hard for everyone to come out to the island. Part of this was because I was sure it would be my mother’s last and it felt like a good opportunity for all of us to gather and be in the same place for the first time in over five years. We worked so hard, my husband and I, to get the space ready to host the weekend. It wasn’t without its issues (family, eh?) but overall, it was enjoyable and festive and special. Turned out I hadn’t dug all the potatoes the year before so they were featured again in our meal.

This year, my desire to do what tradition offers has waned. It is Thanksgiving day and my husband and I are on our own. It is stormy and cold and feels bleak. It’s perfect! My brother and his husband arrive tomorrow on the last boat, with food and turkey and my mother on board. We will celebrate Thanksgiving with all the tradition on Saturday while others are dining on left overs and pie. I am so excited. I can’t wait to have them all here. My mother is stressing about the weather and whether or not the boats will run. This time, though, she is worried more about getting off the island on Monday than she is getting here tomorrow. I told her not to worry: she’s be home in time to go to the pub and all would be well. She says she’s looking forward to being here, and I believe her, but I feel certain she will be ready to leave when the time comes. Unlike me, she is not a sentimental person. She is practical. And she likes her freedom and routine she’s cultivating at her new home. This year, I don’t feel any pressure to uphold my perceived traditions of what Thanksgiving should look like.

Today especially I am grateful for all of it. I am grateful to be here, to still have my mother and most of all I am grateful there are people looking after her in ways I just can’t.

Sunrise | Holiday Lights