Christmas Magic
As much as I’d dreaded and delayed transplant — believing it might kill me more quickly than the disease itself — once at the hospital, I basked in my status as a patient. In the hospital, with the exception of bathing and eating, I had very little to do. Food service workers prepared my food, delivered it to me and took my dishes away. Housekeeping staff cleaned my room daily, wiping down surfaces, emptying the trash, and dry-mopping the floor. Visitors brought me books and movies and food. Whenever a discomfort surfaced, I pressed a button and a nurse came quickly. And, perhaps it was the Ativan I’d been given to help with anxiety and nausea, but I was relaxed and happy, secure in the knowledge that if I sprung an internal leak or stopped breathing, someone would come running.
More than anything, though, I felt a sense of wellness. Only days had passed since Jarred’s cells were infused and when I wasn’t sleeping, I felt good. My cheeks were pink, I still had my hair, and I’d lost weight, which, concerned my medical staff, but I considered a bonus.
It was with this lightness that Joe and I celebrated the Christmas holiday with both our families. Joe’s came first, on the eve of Christmas Eve. His mom and dad, sister and her husband entered my room in dress shirts and slacks, quickly organizing themselves into the window seat and available chairs. Joe’s sister Wendy had recently become pregnant and we excited talked about her news and joked about silly baby names. Joe’s mom presented me with half a dozen books I’d requested to help me through my rehabilitation: Love in the Time of Cholera and One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test by Tom Wolfe, Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris.
The next day, Christmas Eve, Joe arrived at my room earlier than usual. Mom and Seth arrived mid-morning from Stewartville, then Jarred, and Sean, who’d driven from Madison, came after lunch. A short while later Autumn and her boyfriend Ian joined the group. I did not know what the record number of occupants was for that little room, but we had to have exceeded it. Whenever a nurse entered, she did a double take before snaking her way to me in my bed. More than one nurse asked if everyone in the room was related to me, to which we’d respond by nodding our heads and smiling.
Similar to the Chinese-food extravaganza that marked my transplant day, my family celebrated Christmas with another feast. This time a platter of lasagna with garlic bread and salad followed by pie, which Mom had made and brought from home.
When everyone had stuffed themselves and the meal remnants were cleared, we arranged the chairs in a circle and exchanged gifts. Huiras-family Christmas gift exchanges are the stuff of family lore. Normally hours-long, sometimes multi-day affairs, the gift exchange involves one person at a time choosing a gift, announcing who it is from, opening the gift, displaying it for all to see, followed by an oral history of the present’s origin from the giver, and lastly, photographing the moment for posterity. With five children, half that many significant others, and two parents, the process might be called onerous. We call it tradition. This year was slightly different than past since most of the gifts were for me, but between the unwrapping and joking, the process took up a good deal of time.
When the last gift was opened, we re-arranged the chairs in my room into a viewing area — no small feat given the number of Huirases present — but in true Huiras style, we made it work. Then, we turned on the movie Napoleon Dynamite, and laughed our heads off over the sweet, silliness of the film.
When my family left, Joe and I snuggled close together on my hospital bed wrapped in eachother’s arms. We reminisced about Christmases past. The previous year, we’d spent the holiday in shock and mourning from Roger’s death. The year prior, I was reeling from the body-changing effects of the androgens. The year before that we spent Christmas apart from our families, downsizing the holiday to fit into our two-bedroom, Allentown apartment. We agreed that a stem cell transplant Christmas wasn’t ideal, but perhaps not as bad as others. I was safe, for the moment, and we were surrounded by our families. There was no drama or conflict, at least that I saw, because everyone was focused on a singular goal — my survival.
Christmas morning dawned clear and bright and we were awoken, as usual, by a cheery nurse taking vital signs. Not long after the nurse left, a knock at my door brought Santa Claus into my room. I learned the truth about Santa as a 8-year-old, but that knowledge did nothing to dull my excitement at a surprise, Christmas morning Santa visit. Santa gave me two presents that morning; the first a stuffed toy and the second a reminder that magic exists in this world, but only if you believe.
Finally, Joe presented me with his gift: a string of pearls and matching earrings, they were stunning. Joe told me that as soon as I felt up to it, we’d get dressed up in our fanciest clothes and go out to an expensive restaurant to celebrate. We needed an event to look forward to and deserved a good time after the past several months. At the end of the day, which was filled with more family visits, I wrote an entry into the online journal I’d established to communicate my progress with friends and family:
As the years have passed and I’ve experienced splitting the holidays between the families, being far away from home and unable to be with my family, and even a death over the holidays, I’ve begun to look at Christmas celebrations in a new way. I’ve learned to appreciate the fact that no matter where I am — nestled in the cozy basement of Mom’s house in Stewartville surrounded by a dozen people, alone with Joe and our two cats in our apartment in Pennsylvania or a hospital room the size of a college dorm — the location, decorations, food and even the company is just a small part of Christmas.
I remember being a little girl, it was so very important to me to maintain traditions of this magical time of year. I wanted the tree to be decorated just so, certain dishes to be used for the meal, presents to be opened right after dinner. A younger me go weepy thinking about a Christmas not mirroring the Christmas before.
Christmas is about giving, knowing that you are warming the lives of the people you love with gifts, sure, but more importantly, with your love. Be it through a hug and kiss, long distance phone call or Web site, Christmas is about reaching out and touching others’ lives with the good will, hope and cheer that we often forget we’re capable of during the rush of the daily grind.
This Christmas, as I ate Caesar salad and lasagna and later opened gifts surrounded by as many family members as the room could hold, my heart was filled to the brim knowing that each of us was inexorably touching each other — and not just because we were shoulder to shoulder!
A younger Robin would have certainly pitched a fit at having to celebrate in a hospital room, but the me of today, who knows the true meaning of Christmas, knows that this year bore more hope and good will than any of holiday’s past.
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