Celebrating Christmas Without Mam

I celebrated ten Christmases with my mother, Kathleen. That’s all. Ten. Mam died when I was 11. She was ill for several years and the last two Christmases were tough.

For my ninth Christmas Mam was in hospital. Dad took my brother and I to visit her and we sat around the hospital bed thinking this was not how Christmas was supposed to be.

For my tenth Christmas Mam was at home but both she and I were ill. In hindsight my little body was probably responding to the sorrow and stress I was experiencing and I spent all of Christmas (several days of celebrations in Ireland) and my birthday, which is on January 3rd, in bed sick. Mammy returned to hospital on January 4th, and died at home with us on March 2nd, 1988.

(Image of Carmel age 6 holding baby doll received for Christmas 1983)

The Christmases with Mam that I do remember are filled with happy memories of Santa Claus, games and toys, books, attending mass, a glorious open fire and delicious home cooked meals with hot tea and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory on television. My small family consisted of Dad, Mam, my older brother and me and we loved Christmas. The carol singing, tree decorating, Christmas lights, and the joy of giving and receiving filled us with cheer.

My mother had ovarian cancer and for several years she was in and out of hospital. The year I was 9 she was admitted to Galway hospital for a serious operation in November, and she remained there through Christmas, until late January, almost two months later. That she had to spend Christmas in the hospital was confusing and terribly sad. I understood she was battling an illness, but her not being home with us on the most special day of the year was deeply unsettling. My father did his best to keep Christmas morning as normal as possible. The Cabbage Patch Kid I requested was beneath the tree, we visited Granny and my aunt in the morning and we went to mass. But, of course, it wasn’t the same without Mam. Something was very wrong and I was learning at an early age that we couldn’t always have what we wanted. I wanted my mother home with us on Christmas Day.

After visiting Mam in the hospital, Dad took my brother and me on a drive to the village of Menlo, a few miles outside of Galway city, where he pulled the car in at the side of Lough Corrib. Wrapped in our winter coats and hats we stepped out onto soggy ground and stared as a beautiful swan floated before us on the still grey water. For several minutes my full attention was on that striking swan. Hugging my Cabbage Patch close, I clung to my dad’s hand as we admired the swan gliding on the lake. I remember that moment. There was beauty in it. Dad remembers it too.

Following Mam’s death my family remained close. As the years rolled on we kept many of the same Christmas rituals and traditions. Our Christmas tree stands in the corner of the living room where my mother once decided it should be and the decorations are comprised of random pieces collected by my parents down through the years. We attend Christmas Eve mass as a family and familiar hymns sung in both English and Irish take me back to the old days. Dad lights a blazing fire and my brother and I hang our Christmas stockings on either side of the fireplace as we’ve always done, our names in red velvet lettering across the tops of each.

In the years following my mother’s death we went to my aunt’s house for Christmas dinner. As she lives alone we are all company for each other on the day. I’ve experienced so many Christmases without Mam and though this is of course, heartbreaking, Christmas is still a day I enjoy. Time spent with family, beautifully decorated trees, warm fires, delicious food, gift giving, candlelight, crackers and time to read, rest and numerous mugs of hot tea all add up to make an enjoyable, relaxing day.

I think about people who don’t like Christmas, those who feel they have nothing to celebrate, anyone hurting, lonely or afraid. Christmas can be a terribly hard time for some. I remember my little self, a small nine year old girl, gripping my father’s hand while taking in the beauty of a swan on a still lake as my mother lay suffering in the hospital on Christmas day. I worry for my ten year old self, sick in bed on my mother’s last Christmas. My poor mother. I consider my father. My brother. The pain so many of us go through, in different ways, at different times. It may sound strange but I think I’m one of the fortunate ones. Not because I lost my mother. That part of my story is tragic and always will be. I’m fortunate because the light came through the cracks . Mam lives on inside of me. Sometimes, I feel her with me. Writing about her helps. I frequently find a quote of someone’s that resonates. We are in each other’s stories even as the stories differ.

I recall the Christmas swan, beautiful and alone on Lough Corrib that Christmas Day. Beauty is all around us. Let’s look for the beauty wherever we can. And if we cannot do it this Christmas, maybe another day. It’s okay. We don’t always have the ability or desire to look for the silver lining. Perhaps, just allow yourself to be open to it. One small thing of beauty. You might recall it forever.

For now, and into the new year, much love…

Carmel X

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Carmel Breathnach is a freelance writer and former elementary school teacher, born in Ireland and living in Portland, Oregon. She holds a B.A. degree in English literature and Irish language studies from NUI Maynooth, and a Diploma in Education with honors from St. Patrick’s College, Dublin. Carmel writes on the themes of childhood mother loss, grief and gratitude. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, The Irish Times, Huffington Post, Upworthy, Scary Mommy, Voice Catcher, Modern Loss and Pendemic.ie, as well as in the anthology Hidden Lights published by Golden Dragonfly Press. Carmel is ready to query her memoir about mother loss titled Briefly I Knew My Mother.