There I was, alone on Christmas Eve

Odd but not sad. And I had cheesecake.

My tree. Every ornament means something to me.

I awoke from a nap the afternoon of this Christmas Eve day craving cheesecake. It was just after three and I knew Aldi, a little more than a half mile away, would close at four. As I lay there weighing my choices—stay abed or dress for the Up North outdoors—I had to laugh. Really? Cheesecake? It’s not a Christmas Eve tradition. Not really. But maybe that’s the point.

I thought about what it would feel like if I let four o’clock get past me without going out for cheesecake. How miffed I would be when night fell and it became ‘Christmas Eve’ and I had craved cheesecake without indulging.

When I absolutely had the chance.

I was already grabbing socks out of my drawer, thinking about what else I might like for Christmas Eve—chips, dip, maybe some of Aldi’s famous chicken salad—gauging how much time I’d have to shop. Because—I laughed again—this would be a Christmas Eve like no other. Not in my entire lifetime.

I would be alone for Christmas Eve. For the first time ever.

I mean, ever.

It’s a milestone I never expected, something I’d never anticipated, but here I am, at my desk, writing about it, because it feels odd and when something feels odd I often have to write it out in order to understand what it means to me.

So I bought four slices of cheesecake, two New York style and two Strawberry Swirl. (Because if I’d bought a whole cheesecake I would have eaten a whole cheesecake. And yes, I did note those calories.) And when that night came, that Christmas Eve night, I almost forgot to eat any of it!

I was getting ready to turn out the lights when I remembered, and because I’d made such an effort to get it I stopped everything, ignored my chemo exhaustion, that feeling that comes over me with a rush, causing me to hurry into my bed before I collapse—which I never actually do—and ate a few insanely delicious bites of Strawberry Swirl cheesecake while standing over the sink.

Before that, on this Christmas Eve I watched a silly movie called ‘Hope Springs’, only because it starred the beautiful Colin Firth. It occurred to me as I watched it that Colin has made some dreadful movies—including, and you may disagree, ‘Mama Mia’ and ‘Mama Mia, Here We Go Again’, in which the male protagonists, including the beauteous Colin, come off as just clownish in nearly every scene.

But his “The King’s Speech” has more than made up for it. A perfect movie, which, silly me, I should have chosen instead.

I guess I wanted a mindless romance as an antidote to being alone on Christmas Eve, and I got one. I stayed to the end, even though I sensed from the start that the character, also named Colin, would never have chosen either Heather Graham or Minnie Driver as his true mate.

And if any of them had any sense, they never would have chosen this movie after reading that stupid script.

Because the night was still young, I went from ‘Hope Springs’ to ‘Notting Hill’, which I’d seen before, and really should have known better here, too. Let’s just say it didn’t play well the second time. The plot—an American movie star in her absolute prime, bringing in millions per film, falls in love with a practically impoverished British bookseller who can barely get a word out, being so in awe and all—never made sense and never will. It spells disaster right from the start. Instead of that sappy ending, if there is any justice, I predict divorce ahead. And not any too soon.

What fascinated me most about ‘Notting Hill’ was how mean the cameraman was to Julia Roberts. At times she did look like a beautiful movie star, but too often she looked, well—odd. Her nose, still perky at the beginning, grew longer as the story went on. Her mouth, already wide, grew wider. Weirdly wider. By the end she looked tired, like she didn’t want to be in that movie anymore, let alone at Notting Hill. And since Hugh Grant, even then, in 1999, had already lost his looks, this was another match that was never going to work.

Or maybe it was just that I was alone on Christmas Eve and being the in-house movie critic when possibly everyone else was being of good cheer felt perversely satisfying.

I admit I was nervous going into this Christmas Eve. In the morning, when the day ahead seemed long and the ‘eve’ even longer, I remembered Christmas Eves past—big family gatherings, Candlelight services, food preparation, last minute shopping, dressing for the occasion—and an unwelcome sting of sadness came over me.

It hit me in the stomach when I thought of all those who had once been there with me and were now gone from my life forever. People I dearly loved and still do. Did I want those Christmas Eves back? I’m shocked that I didn’t. Did I want those people back? Most of them, yes. But all at once?

No.

So I settled in and turned myself over to a Christmas Eve that felt right for me at a time when it was as much as I could handle. Or wanted to. Tradition be hanged.

I slept well.

And when Christmas breakfast rolled around, I remembered the cheesecake.