Christmas was a repeat of Thanksgiving, only more so. Mike wanted to leave for Sharon and Doug’s days ahead of time, then about 15 minutes into the drive, Christmas Eve day, asked, “When are we coming back home?”
After the opening of gifts that evening, probably around 8, Mike announced he was going to bed. I followed him out to the outside “shack” that had been converted into a guest room. I wanted to be sure he could find his pajamas. He took his shoes off and crawled into bed. I got his pajamas from the suitcase and suggested he put them on.
“I want to go home,” he said.
“No. We’re staying through Christmas. We’ll go home the day after Christmas, like we always do…. Here, you’ll be more comfortable in these,” I said, placing his pajamas at the foot of the bed.
He put them on, crawled back in bed, asked to go home.
I again told him we were staying through Christmas.
“I’ll just walk home then,” he said, getting out of bed and reaching for the door.
I moved in front of the door.
“No, Mike. We’re spending the night.”
“I’ll just stay in bed then!” he said, throwing back the covers. “I know how to do that!”
He got back into bed, yanked the covers over him, and turned his back to me.
I went back to join the rest of the family. Within minutes Mike was back in the house asking to go home. This routine continued throughout our stay, becoming even more incessant than it had at Thanksgiving. He was miserable. I was miserable. And although everyone carried on with the festivities, the contrast between Mike’s present constant state of anxiety and his joyous holiday personality of Christmases past was terrible to witness.
When it was finally time to say our goodbyes and drive away, we all knew without a doubt that Mike had spent his last Christmas with us. The husband who had, with such energy and enthusiasm, decorated the house to the hilt and lit up the whole outside, the grampa who had carefully wrapped gifts and signed tags from Mr. Claus, or the Christmas Fairy, or Rudolph, who had bought extravagant Christmas outfits for each of the grandkids for as long as they would go along with it, the dad who chose gifts with care and collaborated with grown-up cooks on food and drinks, the brother-in-law who every Christmas made an over-the-top extravagantly fancy birthday dessert, the singer whose holiday season was frantically busy with church programs and caroling gigs—that man was gone. He was gone. He wasn’t coming back. Whether we said it or not, we all knew.
The day after we returned from Woodacre, I called Porto Sicuro and arranged with Rachel to move Mike into their Guiding Star memory care section. While the activities director kept Mike occupied with the weekly sing-along, I rushed out to Best Buy and bought a basic TV for the private room, sheets for the extra long single bed, and a comforter. On December 29, 2011, I drove Mike the 20 miles to Cameron Park.
It was time. It was past time.