As adults, we try to create these perfect holiday scenarios for our children. After all, we reason, that is what our adults did for us. But when you reach adulthood, you find there is no 'perfect' and that very 'un-perfect' elements juxtapose themselves into our little self-fashioned worlds, creating along the way Christmas memories that at first blush are more 'mutant' than 'hybrid'.
This is one of those memories.
It was during the year my mom was diagnosed with cancer that certain stirrings were awakened in me, stirrings that did not reach fruition until a number of years after she had already passed on when I left the home of my parents, married and had children of my own. My brother was proceeding nicely, making sound decisions on his education and developing solid relationships, one that would lead to marriage. I, on the other hand, was not ready, either for marriage or career, or it seems to see my brother move out and move on.
That was my situation around the time my mom began chemotherapy. As I look back now, it seemed almost like grace to me; after all, one of my brightest early memories was as a family on the weekend car errands. This was when stuff would happen, like shopping for school supplies and clothes- really, any of the more occasional necessities than groceries would be shopped for on those errands. It was then that we had a chance as a family to take a breath before the work/school week began. It was a time before the landscape was dotted with food chains. In fact, a kid could get thirsty in the back seat, or hungry as he passed by his favorite burger joint, and back then parents actually could and would say no to any requests to stop. Now, just marvel on that; to say 'no' and have it stick.
But mom, in her resourceful and accommodating way, would keep a can of diet soda and some ginger snaps in her purse. And to this day, if I was to smell kleenex tissues that had been hanging around with Doublemint gum inside a purse, and I just happened to be eating ginger snaps washed down with warm diet pop, well, I guess I'd just about mist over, that's all.
So we'd pass around the supplies, one can and oh, maybe 10 or 15 snaps, and it always seemed like enough. In fact, it seemed like more than enough, now that I think of it, because we always seemed considerate to one another. I don't remember that particular trait being hammered into us, but it was a part of the family fiber- neither cajoled nor threatened into us, it was simple respect, an unwritten rule of the road. There was enough for everyone because everyone looked out for one another.
When mom began chemo I had the luxury of being able to set my work schedule around her appointments. My dad did so as well, more often than not. Again I say this must have been grace, since, if we did have to say goodbye, it was this sort of memory that would affirm and validate the love we shared for one another. Our trips to the old Chicago neighborhood to the doctor's office beneath the L tracks became an odd assortment of juxtapositions: a sense of gladness in the midst of concern; a celebration of Christmas and a desire to give and share, while life and time were ebbing away. One would think it horrific, morbid or gross to think of it in these terms, but so much of life is about the ideal in the midst of chaos. If we wait for ideal circumstances to celebrate ideal notions, we miss out on a lot and we cheat ourselves of joy. I can't believe it to see myself even write this, but it's true. It doesn't seem right to have, for example, Christmas displays in a ward full of terminal cancer patients, but in a greater way, it doesn't seem right not to. For these were the people who made Christmas for us; this was their circumstance, and just then we were being called on to accompany them toward their greatest journey. I don't mean to wax poetic, but we would escort our loved ones to the grave, then turn back toward our lives. They would continue their journey without us.
Trips to the doctor's office were not complete without some discussion as to what we could do for the nurses that had been so good to mom. She liked to give, liked to remember people at Christmas. As we became part of the regular crowd there, I remember that when one of the nurses went out for lunch to a local spot, we gave them our order as well. It may seem like strange bedfellows, but at least there were bedfellows, and nice ones at that.
On return trips, I would grow silent as I drove the mini-van through slushed streets home before going on to work. We began a tradition then and continued another one. Mom developed this taste for McDonald's cheeseburgers, (not bad when chemo patients sometimes lose their appetites) so we would buy a sackful. The diet pop was in her purse, still warm, and she was still bringing ginger snaps for us to eat. Only this time I was not in the back seat, not a kid anymore; I was driving, and only beginning to drive toward married life and family. We did eventually lose mom, not through cancer as it turns out, but complications of congestive heart failure. It was like an ugly trick to have been out of the woods with cancer, but not to get better. But during that time when it seemed my own life was on hold it was good to be able to return in some small way the gift my mom, my parents gave to me; that confidence that indeed we were in this together, this life of ours, and we were faithful to one another to the end. I don't imagine that is unique among families, but to see it played out at home was and is meaningful. And it gives weight and meaning to those times of celebration.
I wanted to mention as I wrap this up that I wish it was much better written, more polished. I don't always have the luxury of the second draft. But this topic wouldn't be complete unless I mentioned about the oxygen bottles. One of my roles as 'Tank Tonto' was to go to the hospital to trade out empty bottles for full. It meant going through to the old neighborhood hospital complex and sometimes parking a way's out to do this errand. It meant walking through the neighborhood and passing by homes decked out for Christmas. As somber as it seemed my errand was, I wondered what sort of challenges were behind the doors I passed. I knew we were not the only ones struggling with illness and I hoped the others bore up ok as well.
The oxygen bottles rolled loose on the floor of my van until I got home to unload them. I remember hitting the brakes and hearing this clang like a bell. I would think about how the tops of those things could shoot off under pressure and do me some damage. Again, Christmas decorations in the hospital oxygen department, along with a conversation with one of the techs I was familiar with; no, people who are on oxygen don't usually go off it again.
Driving through Chicago after work I would pass a tiny church. The sign out in front said it was Pentecostal, and that is what I considered myself to be. To make a long story short, this church represented the next step toward my life today. I used to think about and pray for the people who attended there. I imagined families generations deep who attended there. I met a nice girl there who thought it strange that a single man such as myself would drive a minivan, when he had no family; "looks kind of strange, you know?", she would say. Funny, it never occured to me. At that time in my life it seemed to fit me pretty well.
I made a vow a while back not to ever post music on this site. I am going to break that promise today. I won't promote it, and I won't provide links for you to buy it. But if you'd like to, you can hear a different Christmas song that was significant to me and my mom by clicking on each of the pictures on this post. I hope not to be fined for using copyrighted music. Maybe the association would understand, it being Christmas and all. -Joe
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