| DanaC |
11-13-2009 12:50 PM |
It just struck me, properly, for the first time that Christmas 2008 was Dad's last Christmas. he spent it alone, as he couldn't travel up, I was unwell and my bro was knackered by the run up to Chistmas (work and also getting things ready for the girls and a few trips over to dad's to try and get his house cleared up and more comfortable.)
He bought goose for us to have at my Bro's house. And as he was unable to travel he got himself a small one as well. Trouble is it was too big for his cooking tray and oven. he stuffed it in there. Then I think he fell asleep or something. It charred somewhat on the outside. Then he couldn't get it out of the oven. He managed to get some of it out, but it was all dried out. It was all a bit much for him and he gave up on it, ate something else and went to bed. When he was telling mum about it a few days later, he said he'd been really disappointed about it. He'd been looking forward to goose, hadn't had it in years.
The idea of him trying to cook a goose for himself, all alone, struggling for breath after every movement, and then being gutted (and exhausted) when it was ruined, upsets me. I haven't thought about it in a while. It upset me when mum first told me about it. But I hadn't realised then that it would be his last Christmas. I also hadn't realised then that the next time I saw him he'd look so totally different with his white beard and one white eyebrow (the other remained resolutely dark grey to the end)and be barely conscious.
it's just really upset me that his last Christmas was so shit. I can't get the picture out of my head, of his lonely little bungalow, and the piles of packages, opened and unopened, from catalogue stores. The cupboards full of every last ingredient, by a man who loved cooking, but had no breath left to do it.
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