Why I hate Christmas and all major holidays

I am not a Scrooge or a Grinch, really I am not. I lost my love of Christmas not long after I became an adult. At first I think I was appalled at the commercialization of what I saw as a spiritual event. But, back then I was a “re-born” Christian making everyone around me miserable as I tried desperately to save their souls. I was so bad that my Mom thought I had joined a cult and it drove her to her priest. Oddly enough, she became stronger in her faith as a result and I fell away.

In the later years, Christmas became hard because I was alone. I had never found that significant special someone to share it with. I had no family of my own. My siblings began to drift away from a huge family Christmas and instead everyone celebrated individually. But, I always had my parents and when I could I would share it with them at the farm. Back then I loved the snow. They had acres of woods to wander and I loved tromping through with my camera. Many times, mine were the first footsteps on a sea of white. But like all things, that changed too.
Five years ago, I lost my Dad to cancer. I still went down to be with my Mom at Christmas. As much as it was still so I would not be alone, it was also so she would not. The first Christmas was hard. Dad’s death was still too fresh and emotionally, I was a wreck. The second not so much, but I was concerned more about my Mom’s ability to take care of herself. She had just turned 90 a week before Christmas. I joked with her on that birthday and asked her if she was going to try for 100. I was surprised when without hesitation and with certain vehemence she responded,“No!”That year was to be our last at the farm together.

Several weeks after Christmas she fell ill with an infection that weakened her considerably. She never regained her strength and never returned home to the farm. Her home now is a nursing home where she is well cared for. But the loss of her independence nearly killed her that year. She would not accept that she would never go home and was very depressed.

I thought for sure I would lose her and remember how hard Mother’s Day was that year. It was the first time I began to think, this could be the last time I celebrate it with her. Now the thought creeps in every year on all of the holidays and special days, this could be the last.

A year ago I was frantic on Christmas Eve. A winter’s storm stopped me from going. It is a short two hour trip, but in bad weather, it can be treacherous. I felt terrible about it and again worried again that it might be the last. But, it wasn’t.
All this week I have watched the weather. I have worried that the California storms would move east and north and would wreck my plans. But, the forecasters assured that there would only be flurries and travel would not be a problem. Yesterday at work I watched the snow fall. It was much more than flurries. I cleared at least 3 inches from my vehicle. At 10 pm it was falling at an inch an hour.

This morning it is still falling. It doesn’t look bad from here, but I know from experience that it will be worse outstate in southern Minnesota where I will be traveling. That part of the state had the heavier part of the storm and even though the snow is supposed to stop around noon, the roads may not be plowed well. So I am changing my plans and will drive down tomorrow. Hopefully, conditions will be improved.

I will be happy to spend Christmas Day at the nursing home with Mom. They actually put out an excellent meal. But, I know the thought will always be there. This could be the last.

My Gift to My Father

This was originally published June 17, 2007 at Newsvine.com I am re-publishing it here at the request of a friend.



Today is not just Father's day for me. It is also the anniversary of my father's death. On June 17Th 2005, I lost my father to cancer. The cancer had not been caught early enough and there was nothing that could be done to save his life. The only treatment the doctors offered was to possibly extend his life a little longer. But it was feared that in his weakened condition even the treatment might kill him. My father chose to have no further treatment. He saved us, his children, from a terrible decision. He said simply, that he had a good long life and he accepted the fact that his life was ending.



He was eventually moved to a hospice unit in a nursing home in his home town, but while he was still at Abbott Northwestern Hospital in Minneapolis I went to visit him. I think it was the first time I had been there with him by myself. It was uncomfortable and I didn't know what to say. I think I said something stupid like "how are you?" I don't remember exactly. However, I do remember his response. He told me he was lonely. Then I really didn't know what to say. I had never talked with my Dad much. I had always been more comfortable talking with my mother. His words stayed with me as I left the hospital that day.



The doctors had estimated that he had probably six months to live. But, we were all surprised at how quickly his health began to fail. He had only been in the nursing home a couple of weeks when I got the dreaded call that I needed to come. They had been unable to wake him that morning. Even the hospice nurses were surprised. It was a two hour drive for me. I had picked up my oldest brother Paul and we got down there in record time. But, before we got there my brother Arno had been able to wake him. All of his children were able to make it there in time to say goodbye.



The next day he had slipped further and this time we couldn't wake him. Family and friends moved in and out of his room. I can remember crying on the shoulder of my best friend from high school. She was working at the nursing home and I hadn't seen her in probably twenty years. But, she showed up just in time when I needed her.



At some point during that long afternoon I made a decision. I am not sure how, but I knew that this would be his last day. I decided to stay with him. I remembered that day in the hospital a couple weeks before. I did not want him to die alone. People tried to tell me that he could linger for a while and that I really didn't need to stay, but I knew, and I was staying.



My sister-in -law Jane decided to stay with me. I mainly just sat by his bed and talked to him. The words I couldn't find a couple weeks before were there. I know he heard me. At one point I was telling him that we kids all learned to swear from him. He never swore in front of us. But, when he was milking his cows he would sometimes let loose a string of choice profanity. My siblings and I would be sitting at the back door listening. Jane, who had been sitting on the other side of the bed, started to laugh. She told me that when I said we were all listening, he kicked. I laughed as well and quickly reassured him that God wouldn't hold it against him.



As the night progressed Dad seemed really restless and I thought he might be in pain. I got the nurse to increase his medication. She told me he probably wasn't in pain with all of the medication he had received. She said that the reason he might be restless was because, "dying was hard work!"



I continued to talk to him, but I was running out of things to say. So I tried think of a time in his life when he would have been relaxed. My Dad was a farmer and I remembered on the first farm that we lived on, there was a field with mile long rows. As it was early June, I tried to think what he would have been doing if he were still farming. I came up with "cultivating the corn." I asked him to picture himself on his tractor on a sunny, June afternoon driving down those long rows. He was out of the house away from his seven, noisy children, it was peaceful. He was just driving his tractor. After that, every time he started to get restless, I talked to him about being out in that field. I might have just imagined it, but it seemed to help.



About 10 pm he suddenly fell into a deep sleep. His breathing was normal again and he seemed almost relaxed. I stopped talking and Jane and I moved to a small table at the foot of his bed. We started to play cards as my Dad started to gently snore. Just before midnight I began to doubt that it would happen that night. Then he made a funny sounding noise and then nothing.



I came back around to his side and grabbed his hand. It seemed almost like I could feel him leaving. I also sensed the very strong presence of several departed family members, most strongly were my grandfather and my aunt who was also my godmother. There was almost a joyous, welcoming feeling. To this day I cannot adequately describe it.



We got the nurse on duty and it was confirmed. My father was pronounced dead shortly after midnight. As I drove away from the nursing home that night I knew I should be grieving, but I wasn't. I was happy for him. He was no longer in pain and he was with his family. I had shared it with him. He was not alone.



Two days later on a Sunday, I was trying to write his eulogy. It suddenly occurred to me that it was Father's Day. That night at the nursing home was my final and possibly the best gift I could have given him. I gave him my time.



Happy Father's Day, I miss you!