It was around this time last year, in early November, that my father became ill. The slant of the afternoon light through sparse ochre colored leaves reminds me of those afternoons driving home from North Shore University Hospital on the Northern State Parkway with my mother in the front passenger seat, both of us talking about treatments and our hopes for his recovery in time for Thanksgiving.
As the holiday approached we both reconciled ourselves that he wouldn’t be coming home for Thanksgiving, but hopefully Christmas. On Christmas morning we brought gifts to his hospital room and we opened them for him because he was too weak to do so himself.
I was relieved when New Year’s Day had passed. At last, the holidays were over. I remember feeling alienated last year in my shroud of grief – like there was a big party going on, but I wasn’t invited. I felt like I had taken a drug that distorted my vision of the world around me. The Christmas decorations seemed larger than ever before - too gaudy and bright. The Christmas music was louder than usual - tedious and intrusive. I wanted to be quiet in my thoughts and prayers.
This year is different; I desperately want to be happy for the holidays. I’ve already found two radio stations that are playing Christmas music. But every Christmas song I hear reminds me of the sadness I felt this time last year, and I find myself slipping into a listless malaise. I don’t want to start Christmas shopping or baking cookies or planning the Christmas feast– all things that brought me so much pleasure in years past.
The other day, I tried to order a set of Spode Christmas dishes from Macy’s, a purchase I’ve wanted to make for the past 35 years but always thought was too frivolous and expensive. Seeing those little Christmas trees on my plate every morning and night would surely cheer me up, I thought. But my Internet order never went through – some glitch in their system, I was told.
I know these trivialities will never fill the void that was left in our family since my father passed away. But I’m trying to salvage what could become another melancholy holiday season without my father. He was the one who brought music to our family and laughter around the table. He was the one I loved to cook for.
I remember once catching my foot on a piece of lifted sidewalk and flying into a slow motion fall. It was such a long stumbling clumsy attempt to catch my balance, arms flailing in all directions, feet trying to outrun the fall. I actually had a split second when my mind’s eye saw this spastic tumble ending with me falling on my face. I didn’t, though. At some point my arms and legs coordinated with each other, my balance was restored and I continued walking along as if nothing had happened.
I often feel like I did that day, stumbling along, trying to find the balance again in my life. I’m trying to make sense of all of this. For as long as I live, I’ll never understand how life can be here one day and gone the next. But as long as there is life, I want to be happy. And, knowing my father, he wouldn’t want the music or the laughter to end. He especially wouldn’t want the cooking to stop.
So tomorrow I’ll try again to listen to some Christmas songs, to get in the spirit, to plan my Christmas feast. Soon I’ll hang some decorations, buy some gifts and start baking the cookies. I’ll do it all with fond memories of Christmases past when the family was whole, when my dad was still here.
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