The question came up today: What do you want for Christmas? Now, you might be thinking "Isn't November a little early to jump into Christmas?!" but stay with me on this...
For the last decade, Christmas has been bittersweet. It's the time of year when my grandma swears she's dying and that this is her last Christmas with us. We deck the halls and binge on Christmas movies until we're convinced that love is just one kiss under the mistletoe away. Christmas isn't a day, but months of fighting with darkness.
Three years ago, just after quitting my job to be a full-time caregiver, we found ourselves sitting vigil at Grandma's bedside in the hospital. For two weeks, we wondered what would become of us if she didn't recover from whatever mystery that had left her unable to communicate and unaware of her surroundings. Since then, each week (sometimes, each hour) has been lived in a kind of triage as we try managing the pain and heartache that comes with her deteriorating health and the dysfunctional family dynamics that make her care all the more stressful. In the dark and honest breaks in the day, when all is quiet and I sit watching the world carry on, I wonder if I'll have the strength to keep going when there is no longer someone who needs me.
These are the thoughts that greet me as we drag out the tree.
Loneliness accompanies the stockings that get hung.
Heartache greets me as we light up the tree.
Longing sings beneath the joyful chorus of carols.
Each decoration is a fight against hopelessness, an act of defiance in the face of sorrow that threatens to consume me. The gifts and advent calendars are promises of a tomorrow, an anticipation of something good. In all, these things are reminders of hope, and the one thing I ask for at Christmas (the one thing I need above all else) is hope.
For the last decade, Christmas has been bittersweet. It's the time of year when my grandma swears she's dying and that this is her last Christmas with us. We deck the halls and binge on Christmas movies until we're convinced that love is just one kiss under the mistletoe away. Christmas isn't a day, but months of fighting with darkness.
Three years ago, just after quitting my job to be a full-time caregiver, we found ourselves sitting vigil at Grandma's bedside in the hospital. For two weeks, we wondered what would become of us if she didn't recover from whatever mystery that had left her unable to communicate and unaware of her surroundings. Since then, each week (sometimes, each hour) has been lived in a kind of triage as we try managing the pain and heartache that comes with her deteriorating health and the dysfunctional family dynamics that make her care all the more stressful. In the dark and honest breaks in the day, when all is quiet and I sit watching the world carry on, I wonder if I'll have the strength to keep going when there is no longer someone who needs me.
These are the thoughts that greet me as we drag out the tree.
Loneliness accompanies the stockings that get hung.
Heartache greets me as we light up the tree.
Longing sings beneath the joyful chorus of carols.
Each decoration is a fight against hopelessness, an act of defiance in the face of sorrow that threatens to consume me. The gifts and advent calendars are promises of a tomorrow, an anticipation of something good. In all, these things are reminders of hope, and the one thing I ask for at Christmas (the one thing I need above all else) is hope.
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