Christmas Without You
by Rob Warr
Chapter 5
Wednesday, there was no change, dad remained in a coma, but was still breathing on his own and in no immediate danger. Well, other than the fact that cancer was eating away at his brain. Cancer, what an ugly word. Cancer, the evil killer that spared no one, young or old when it came calling.
The school administration was very sympathetic and cards and flowers and gifts began to roll in, both at home and at the hospital in the following days. I didn't understand at first, but Juanita told me it was just how people dealt with such things. Next would be food, she laughed sadly, but mama Brown pretty much had that market cornered.
Eric was like my little shadow, following me everywhere but the bathroom when I did number two. Number one, however, usually found both of us sidled up to the toilet crossing streams as we had as little kids.
Juanita was wonderful. I knew she was a sweet and loving woman, if for no other reason than seeing the way she'd raised Eric, but when I'd gotten to know her I began to think of her as a second mom, and now that our real mom was with dad in the hospital, she became even more so.
She dried our tears, gave us a hug when we needed it, fed us, made sure we got off to bed and tucked us in, all while dealing with her own grief. Yes, she was grieving too. For our dad, and especially for our mom, and once the house was quiet at night she'd go off to the guest room and cry herself to sleep. Of course I didn't know this at the time, for if I had, you can bet I would have made sure one of us was there to comfort her as she comforted us.
Friday finally came and went with no change and our hope for a Christmas miracle was diminishing with each day. Two days to go before Christmas and it looked like neither mom nor dad would be home with us to celebrate. Not that we planned on celebrating much, but we'd at least hoped to have our family together for the holiday.
I got calls from friends, some who I hadn't heard from for a while, and even a few cards addressed specifically to me. I appreciated the effort on their part, but each call, each card, was just a reminder of what I was about to lose, and instead of cheering me up, they only added to my sadness.
I even got a few Christmas cards, some with no mention of dad's illness, and I wondered if they'd been mailed before the news was out. Those cards I welcomed and added them to our card tree in the front foyer.
As I added a card I'd just received that day to the card tree, I was reminded of the year that dad had built the four foot wooden tree. It was three dimensional with three interlocking parts and sat on the front hall table. Dad had painted the tree green, then painted small wooden clothespins in a variety of festive colors and glued them strategically around the tree to hold the cards. In total it would hold about two dozen cards, though we never received that many, and instead spaced them out leaving some clothespins empty. But this year, I had to turn the tree around twice to finally find an empty spot. I laughed bitterly, if only dad could see the tree now. And then I got a wonderful idea. If dad couldn't come to the tree, I could take the tree to him, well...a picture of it anyway.
I rushed to my room and grabbed my Polaroid camera, a gift from last Christmas, and thought how appropriate that was. I had a fresh pack of film, ten chances to get the perfect picture, but lucked out and got it just right on the first one. That inspired me to get the others involved and I spent the rest of the afternoon taking pics of all of us, and finally Juanita took a picture of us kids, including Eric, beneath the Christmas tree. All were perfect and I took them with me that day when we went to visit dad. I'd brought a roll of scotch tape too and once I'd attempted to show them to dad, I was going to tape them to the wall over his bed.
Mom had gotten approval for this unusual request and was ready for me when we arrived. We found dad as usual, his breathing shallow but regular, his handsome face once again shaved, his hair combed as he appeared to be taking an nap.
One by one I showed dad the pictures and even though his eyes remained closed all the while, I described each photo in such detail that if some part of dad's brain was processing my words there would be no doubt that he saw the photo in his mind's eye. As I finished with each photo, mom took them from me, looked at them with tears in her eyes, then taped them over dad's bed.
Eventually I'd gone through all the Polaroids, and though I'd been there much longer than usual, no one came to run me out. I stepped back and admired the photos and nodded to mom. She had a good eye for this sort of thing and the photos seemed to be perfectly aligned, two rows of five each.
"These are wonderful, honey," she said wrapping her arms around me, "dad would have loved them."
Would have? I thought bitterly, "He still can, mom. If only he'd come out of the coma he could at least see them, right?" I asked, desperate for some good news.
"Yes, I just meant he'd have loved to be there when you were taking them. I bet it was a real chore to get Sammy and Linda to pose for you like that," she laughed sadly.
"Juanita was a big help, and Eric, too."
"They're wonderful people, son, and we're lucky to have them in our lives."
A soft knock on the door alerted us to Sammy and Linda's arrival, and since none of the nursing staff seemed to be around, for a while all four of us visited dad. Finally a nurse came in, took one look at us and rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything.
We moved aside and she did her thing and left. I didn't know if she was just being respectful or if she figured it didn't matter, that she'd already written dad off as hopeless.
Juanita and Eric were finally allowed to visit dad that day for five minutes, but Eric came out after a few minutes looking ready to pass out and I pulled him to me and sat him down. Juanita finally emerged, wiping at her eyes with a pretty handkerchief and looking almost as pale as her son.
Mom hugged Juanita and whispered something to her and she nodded.
It was decided that we'd all go down to the cafeteria for an early dinner, and even though none of us had much of an appetite, it was nice to have mom with us. If only we could have had dad there too, it would have been perfect.
Eventually, mom said she wanted to get back to dad and she walked us to the entrance and hugged and kissed all of us, then turned to go. I watched as she disappeared around a corner, then reluctantly followed the others to Juanita's Explorer.
Saturday came, and as we were getting ready to head to the hospital snow began to fall. Snow, snow, I thought bitterly. We wished for a white Christmas every year, and now, now, the year our dad can't be here, the year he's laying in the hospital, maybe dying, this is the year you pick to have snow, I fumed at God, or Mother Nature, or whoever was responsible.
"I have four wheel drive, don't worry, we'll get there okay," was Juanita's only comment.
Sammy and Linda looked as glum as I did, but Eric seemed more chipper today as he stared out at the huge soft flakes falling all around us.
Mom met us as usual, and I noticed she'd done something to her hair. Later, I heard her tell Juanita that there was a beautician who came around to the hospital to do patient's hair and she'd had hers done so she'd look presentable for dad, in case he regained consciousness.
Dad looked as if he had lost a little weight now and it showed in his face. He was still handsome, but he was more pale and looked sickly now. We were all allowed to visit at once now, a new rule instigated by dad's doctor, Dr. Singh, and again I wondered, if they figured it just didn't matter at this point.
As we all stood around dad's bed, talking, but not really knowing what to talk about, it was Juanita who had the perfect solution.
"Babies, let's join hands and pray," she said, not waiting for any answer as she took mom's hand on one side and Linda's on the other.
I grabbed Sammy's and Eric's hand and they finished connecting the chain with Linda and mom, and soon Juanita was praying fervently, not just for dad, but for mom, and all us kids too. She was a powerhouse when she prayed, and she had us leaking tears, and when she ended the prayer at long last we echoed her 'Amen', with a thunderous chorus of our own.
We wiped our eyes and only then did we notice that we were not alone. In the doorway, politely waiting for our prayer time to end, stood a man in a white coat. He was short for a man, maybe 5'8" or so, and couldn't have weighed more than 120 pounds. He appeared to be in his late forties, and his skin tone and features looked of Indian descent. Putting two and two together I surmised this must be dad's doctor, Dr. Singh.
"Hello, hello," how is my patient doing?" he said sounding as American as any of us did, "with so much love around him I am sure he feels comforted."
"Hello, Dr. Singh," mom said, "these are my children, Tommy, Sammy, and Linda, and you know Juanita, and this is her son Eric..."
"A pleasure to meet all of you," he said cordially as he came closer, checked the chart at the foot of the bed, flipped a page over and studied it closely before hanging it back on the hook there. Then walking around the bed as we moved aside, he examined dad, raising his eyelids and shining a light in them, then in his ears, and then his nose. Weird, but typical stuff for doctors I guessed.
"No change, so far," he said looking at mom, "but we mustn't give up hope."
"I know, thank you, Doctor," mom said, "we're still holding out for that Christmas Miracle," she laughed sadly.
He nodded. Did Indians even celebrate Christmas? Oh well, he had to know what it was, how could anyone live in this country and not be exposed to it?
He squeezed mom's hand, then excused himself, and pausing at the door, he turned to us and said, "I know it's not the best Christmas for you, but Merry Christmas, anyway." Then he was gone, leaving me more confused than ever.
Again we all dined in the cafeteria, and this time everyone seemed to have more of an appetite. I had meatloaf and it wasn't half bad. Not as good as mom's or Mrs. Brown's, but pretty darn good.
We visited after we ate, and as she had the day before mom finally broke it up by saying she needed to get back to dad. This was becoming a ritual of sort, visiting dad, having dinner, talking, then leaving her behind, and I wondered how much longer I could endure this torture. Yes, I was thinking of myself, again, but I was still a little kid, and I still thought the world revolved around me.
Back at our house, we watched a Christmas movie on TV, but I wasn't really into it. I sat on the couch snuggled up to Eric with a throw over our laps and eventually I drifted off to sleep. I awoke to Sammy poking me and telling me it was time to go to bed, and I yawned and looked around. Everyone was gone except Sammy, but I soon found Eric in the bathroom getting ready to brush his teeth.
"I already showered," he told me, "so, it's all yours."
"Nuts," I said, "I like showering with you better."
"I know, but you were sleeping..."
I yawned again and began stripping off my clothes. Eric continued to brush his teeth and I turned on the shower and waited for the water to get warm.
"Stay and talk to me, okay?" I all but pleaded.
"Sure," he said after rinsing and spitting. Then he put the lid down on the toilet and sat down and waited while I showered.
"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," I said thoughtfully, "we always open a present, but this year I don't even care if I got anything. The only gift I want is dad home," I added with a lump in my throat.
"It could happen," Eric said, but he didn't sound very enthusiastic.
I still couldn't bring myself to voice the unthinkable, for fear I'd speak it into being, so instead I went the other way.
"Yeah, he could come out of the coma and he could talk to us and we could tell him how much we miss him and how much we love him. And he could see the pictures, he'll get a big laugh out of them...and we can bring his gifts to the hospital and maybe even smuggle him some turkey in..."
But would there even be turkey at our house? Would we celebrate the day at all? Then I realized Juanita would have taken care of all that with Mrs. Brown's help. We wouldn't starve, that was for sure, but what about the rest, was that just a fantasy? Would we ever see our dad conscious again?
I showered and dried off, dressed for bed and somberly led the way to my room. We passed Sammy on the way, a pair of clean boxers in his hand. Ordinarily he would have complained that I beat him to the shower, but these days there didn't seem to be much fight in him.
"All yours, brother," I said daring to lay a hand on his arm.
He nodded, "Thanks, any hot water left?"
"Yep, plenty, I saved ya some," I said grinning, and he managed a lop sided grin as well.
In my room, we piled into my bed and rolled together as always, luxuriating in the feel and warmth of each other. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and it didn't take long to fall asleep, and thankfully I did not dream, nor did I awake till my aching bladder drove me from my bed at 9 the next morning.
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