Christmas, Blueberries and Her
A bittersweet story of love and loss
For as long as I can remember, me and my family have exchanged Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. It was only a few years ago that I found out that most people do that on the morning after. So, I called my mom to ask her why that is. “Well, when you were younger, you were so impatient to see the presents that we decided to do it earlier. And it ended up sticking,” she said. So, my childhood impatience became the reason we started celebrating Christmas in our own, weird way.
To me, Christmas means family. A lovely occasion for us to not only exchange gifts, but also to gather round the table and enjoy the sweet taste of Christmas sweets, Michael Buble’s songs and a passing year. Even though my parents were divorced and my dad hadn’t joined us for Christmas in years, the atmosphere was always warm and filled with love. Never had I ever felt like something was missing.
As I mentioned, Christmas sweets were an essential. So was the traditional Christmas bread. Following my great grandmother’s recipe, my mom and I would always dedicate nearly the whole day to making this bread. When I was younger, it would just be one big pile of deliciousness. However, as I grew up, I started trying out different shapes, and my mom would happily observe my bursts of creativity and remind me of the ingredients. She liked watching me be an independent young baker and taking pictures of me while I’m preparing the bread.
That particular Christmas of 2017, however, something was different. The sweetness of the holiday was tainted by the bitter taste of illness — my mom was sick with cancer. This meant no sugar and not much physical activity, which meant no Christmas sweets and no jumping around the living room and singing at the top of our lungs.
I was devastated. My mom had always been a free-spirited and vibrant woman that enjoys life with the purity and passion of a young girl. You would never guess her age, not just because of her youthful look, but those bright sparkles in her ocean eyes which were now being mercilessly washed away by the pain. This was her third time facing such a serious disease and after such a long and painful journey, she deserved happiness most of all. I wanted to cheer her up, I wanted her to celebrate with us and enjoy our time together.
So, I researched. And as I discovered a lovely recipe for pinwheel-shaped Danish pastries with blueberries, I found out that I can replace the sugar with stevia. I ran to Billa, browsed the bio sector and grabbed a package of it. As I was walking home, I couldn’t erase the big, goofy smile off my face. I was excited and nervous. The only time I had tried to make something was when I made chocolate muffins with strawberry jam for my crush. He loved them. But this, this was so much more important than a crush. A bigger, stronger love, beyond time and space. A person I would risk my life for, let alone an hour in the kitchen.
It was a mess. Flour and powder sugar all over the place, blueberry juice soaking into the cooking parchment. But soon, the kitchen was filled with the heart-melting, sweet aroma of blueberries and cream, and my heart was filled with hope and joy.
“It smells so good, Trayana!” My mom smiled at me as I entered her room, which was right next to the kitchen. The sweet smell rushed through the door and danced around the walls.
“They’re almost ready!”
I went back to check on them. Legs hurting from squatting in front of the oven, eyes tearing up from the hot air every time I opened the oven door. But they were finally ready. Tightly shaped, golden brown on top, the juicy filling almost oozing out. Perfect.
Meanwhile, the traditional bread was also ready. This year, it was in the shape of a heart — a symbol of my love for her.
Me and my grandmother set the table. I had also prepared different appetizers, like stuffed eggs and carrots glazed with honey, as well as a salad with tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce and avocado. They were all simple and unimpressive dishes, but they were my first attempt at preparing the dinner table for Christmas Eve. With every plate, my mom’s smile grew bigger and bigger, but nothing could compare with the joy and the tiny bit of fear on her face when I placed the sweet pinwheels in front of her.
“Are you sure I can eat that?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes, you can, Mom.” I said proudly, explaining to her what ingredients I had used.
After taking a bite, a happy little squeal escaped her lips. “They are so delicious! You did such a great job, my dear. I’m so proud of you.”
Before we knew it, her plate was empty. But our hearts were full.
Not only that evening, but throughout this whole tough period in our lives, our roles had switched. My mother had dreamed of having a daughter ever since she was a young girl. When she had me, despite being a single mother with a possibly lethal disease, she devoted her life to me. I remember her asking me: “Trayana, would you like mom to quit her job to stay home more?” Of course, I wanted to. I never could have guessed that her decision was driven by such a serious health condition. I never could have guessed that her beautiful locks, which seemed slightly different, were actually a wig. Despite being so weak from chemotherapy, she would take every possible minute to spend time with me, to make sure I was okay and had everything I needed. She would never let me know what she was going through, and I probably wouldn’t have understood back then. But now, it was different. Now, I was older, stronger, wiser. And I didn’t want her to be ashamed of showing weakness in front of me. She was still my hero, my wounded hero. And it was time for me to take care of her.
I lost my mother on 29th March 2020, a Sunday morning, one week after heart valve surgery, a day before her birthday and two days before we were supposed to go back home to Varna. Acute heart failure in her sleep. After thymoma, Hodgkin’s disease and breast cancer, it was her heart that gave her a peaceful death. Early, unexpected, but peaceful.
I was broken. Angry. Sad. Empty. A hurricane of emotions, one of the most painful ones being guilt. Guilt for all the things I didn’t say or do. Guilt of not being there to save her. Guilt of not being able to take care of her the one time I should have. I thought I would wake up, I thought I would feel a premonition, I thought that I would be able to bring her back somehow. I believed our love could defy the laws of mother nature. But it seemed like a regular Sunday morning, which turned out to be the most heartbreaking, soul-shattering day of my life. She was gone, and I couldn’t do anything to save her.
It hurts. It always will. I had never imagined a life without her. A life where she doesn’t see me graduate, where she doesn’t dance with me at my wedding, where she doesn’t get to play with her grandchildren. Now, I want a white Christmas where the white is the color of her hair and my gift is her smile that is warmer than the coziest fireplace.
But I won’t have that.
What I hope and pray for instead is that she is there, for all of those things, even if I cannot see her. For all the times I need to make a tough decision, for all the times I want to show her the fruits of my hard work, of the woman she has taught me to be. The soul of a happy, proud and strong mother who promised to always be by my side. What gives me peace is that she will live on in my heart, and that she is still with me. And she always will be, my whole life. For the whole bittersweetness of it.
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Trayana Karamihaleva is a business administration and journalism and mass communications student at the American University in Bulgaria. This story is in memory of her mother with whom she had a strong, loving relationship filled with bittersweet memories.
