Our Patriarch’s Final Family Gathering: The Duct-Taped-Poinsettia Christmas

There comes a time at which the Christmases of years past tend to fade into a blur. But sometimes there is one that will be remembered and cherished for all time. My father’s last Christmas at home went horribly wrong, then ended up being extraordinarily special.

About a dozen years ago, my father was in rapid decline with a cruel disease that had greatly diminished his ability to walk and to speak. We knew that the need for 24-hour skilled nursing care was drawing near. My mother, along with hired part-time caretakers and nearby family members, worked to make his life comfortable and to keep him in the house as long as possible.

It was a little before Christmas when my father found the words to say, “It’s time,” lovingly helping the family make the difficult decision as to when we should seek out a nursing facility. He was a generous, compassionate man who even at this awful time sought to give what he could to help his wife and family. His assent to this final move was the gift he offered the family. A nice nearby facility that my mother could visit every day was found, and the move was scheduled for January.

Caregiving is also tough. My mother, who might otherwise have been enjoying her golden years with travel and leisure, was instead a round-the-clock caregiver who was extremely tired after several years in this role.

But there would still be one last Christmas at home! All of their children and grandchildren would be there, including those who lived in other cities, and who had started making their own family Christmas traditions. We all made plans to converge on our hometown to celebrate one last all-family Christmas at my parents’ house.

My mother’s excitement about this Christmas gathering gave her strength as she planned for the wonderful meals and the time we would all spend together. The out-of-town family members were scheduled to arrive on December 23.

But things went very bad late on the night of December 22.

My dad had a medical emergency, which caused him to take a bad fall. My mother called for an ambulance, and then called me and my wife, who lived in the same city. Before we could get to her house, the ambulance had already taken my father away, and my mother had made the decision to drive in her own car to meet the ambulance at the hospital.

Her night got even worse. On the way to the hospital, by herself, after midnight, my mother’s car had a flat tire, forcing her to pull over to the side of the highway. My wife and I diverted, and were now heading to where my mother was broken down, when she called and told us a police officer had pulled up behind her, and upon hearing her story he kindly offered her a ride to the hospital. My wife and I redirected again, arriving at the hospital shortly thereafter, where my wife comforted my mother and attended to the hospital intake ordeal, while I left to go attend to the abandoned car.

By the time the rest of the family started arriving the next day, my father was checked into a hospital room, and his injuries were being attended to.

Discharge would not happen until after Christmas, therefore there was not going to be a final Christmas at home.

A constant stream of family members was coming and going from his hospital room over the next 36 hours, and as the afternoon of Christmas Eve wore on, a decision was made for the entire family to celebrate Christmas Eve in his hospital room.

Gifts from my parents to the grandchildren would be brought in to the room, as would gifts being given to my mother and father. They would be opened on Christmas Eve in the hospital room. A few decorations would also be brought in, and although there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree in the room, a big, beautiful poinsettia from my mother’s house would be brought over.

As dusk settled in on Christmas Eve, the family converged on the hospital, with the grandkids hauling in presents from the cars, and the women heading in with trimmings to decorate the room.

But during transport, some presents had shifted and fallen on the poinsettia, knocking it over and breaking several stems. The broken poinsettia was left in the car.

With the family all assembled in the hospital room, my mother inquired about the poinsettia, and she was told of its fate. While disappointed that this Christmas was not playing out as she had envisioned, until now she had stoically persisted in addressing the challenges. After all that had occurred in the past 48 hours, the broken poinsettia was such a minor incident, but it was one setback too many. “Can’t anything go right?” my mother asked as she started to cry.

The daughters-in-law led her out to the corridor to console her, while others sang some Christmas songs for my father. Meanwhile, the two oldest grandsons headed back out to the car and grabbed the various poinsettia parts. They brought the pieces back into the hospital, and then found some duct tape at a nursing station with which they taped the broken branches to the original stalks.

The boys triumphantly brought the taped-together poinsettia into the hospital room, and this time it was my father’s turn to be emotional. First there were a few tears, followed by his hearty laugh, as the boys showed off their poinsettia repairs. It was a laugh we all knew well, but which we hadn’t heard much recently.

The family was now all back in the room and my mother was beaming with pride at the love her children and grandchildren were showing to her, to my father, and to each other. Presents were opened. Carols were sung. There was lots of hugging and abundant laughter.

At the center of it all was a beloved man whose earthly race was almost over, and a poinsettia held together by duct tape, a poinsettia which will always be a cherished memory to the family assembled in that hospital room.

[buck.throckmorton at protonmail dot com]

posted by Buck Throckmorton at 11:00 AM

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