For most people, the holidays are the happiest time of year. Personally, I’ve grown to hate them. Too many people obsess over finding the perfect gift for their loved ones, completely ignoring the fact that time is always the best gift of all. I’ve been reminded of this every year since I started caring for the terminally ill. This year marks the fourth in a row that I am helping a family prepare for their last Christmas together.
“Mel, can we go shopping this afternoon?” Alyssa has been doing well this week. She’s not as run down and even has some color in her cheeks. This morning, she asked me to help her decorate for Christmas. Xavier grumbled the entire time he was carrying boxes up from the basement, but I know him well enough to know he wasn’t truly upset. Once we had everything in the living room and Alyssa settled on the couch where she could tell me what to do, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before heading off to work.
It’s getting a little bit easier every day to see the two of them together. The first two weeks, my heart ached every time I saw him or even caught a whiff of his woodsy cologne when I walked into the room. Now, it’s impossible for me to hold onto the pain when I see how devoted he is to his wife and son.
“Sure, as long as you don’t push me too hard,” I say, looking down from the top of the ladder. Alyssa gives me the thumbs-up that she’s finally satisfied with the placement of the star on the tree and I climb down. “After all, you might have been sitting around all day, but this lady I work for is a real slave driver,” I laugh, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
I know I’ve allowed myself to get too close to Alyssa, but she has an infectious personality and we really clicked. And most of the time, it’s easy to forget that she’s dying because she refuses to act like she’s sick.
“Yeah, rumor on the street is that she’s a real bitch,” Alyssa replies, reaching out her hand so I can help her stand.
“She’s not so bad,” I play along. “But I think she might have a serious Christmas obsession.” I’m not sure there’s a single horizontal surface that hasn’t been infested by the holiday spirit. Not my thing, but then again, it’s not about me.
“You know, I never used to like decorating,” she confesses as we walk down the hall to her room. “But admit it, if you lived in a house like this, you’d decorate too.”
And, so much for being over the pain. I bite down on my tongue, hard, so I won’t be tempted to either cry or tell Alyssa that I used to live in this exact house. The closer we get, the guiltier I feel because I’m lying to her. Not directly, of course, but I have to carefully skirt around little comments such as this.
“Yeah, you have a point.” I close the door behind us and go to the window overlooking the backyard. While Alyssa gets dressed, I think about the first time I saw the play set in the back corner of the lot.
“I’m going to see if I can sell that monstrosity,” Xavier says, pointing to the wooden play set. We’ve never talked about having kids, but now that we have our own home, I can almost picture a little brown-haired boy or girl running through the grass to climb to the top of the slide.
“Why would you sell it?” I ask. It seems a shame to get rid of it since I know how expensive a structure like that is to build. “It’s not hurting anything sitting there.”
“Why would we keep it? You have at least two years of school left, and then you’ll be so focused on your career you won’t have time to start a family.” The words sting, even if they’re true.
“Hey, space cadet,” Alyssa laughs as she throws a balled up towel at me. I turn around and see her staring at me, tapping her foot. “Are we shopping or did you want to stare at the snow all afternoon?”
Four hours later, I follow Alyssa into the house, feeling a bit like a pack mule. She tried to reach for the bags, but there’s no way I’m subjecting myself to Xavier’s wrath if he catches us as we walk in the door. If he doesn’t back off, I’m going to be forced to sit him down and tell him to let Alyssa live her life. She won’t say anything to him, but she complains to me almost daily about the fact that he’s treating her as if she already has one foot in the grave. She’s a proud woman and having her independence stripped away from her before it’s time is frustrating her.
“Mommy, you’re home!” Jacob squeals, running through the house. She braces herself against the wall as the boy crashes into her legs. “Did you get me something?” he asks, eyeing the bags in my hands.