A Glass Christmas

I’ve been quiet lately, stuck somewhere in the space between hope and fear and pain and radical acceptance. I haven’t wanted to write updates for fear that the message would only express the feeling of that moment, and the moments I want to express never seem to be lighthearted lately. We’ve been watching Christmas movies, and if there’s any emotion I’d like to promote, it’s lightheartedness. “Tis the season to be jolly and joyous…falala.”

We brought in a Christmas tree a few weeks ago, fresh from the box. In the BMT (bone marrow transplant) rooms, you can only bring in things that have been deeply sanitized or brand spanking new. Clothing must be washed several times and stored in bins that have been wiped down with disinfectants. Toys must be fresh. I even had to go through a heavy regimen of cleaning to get away with any makeup in the room. Ask me why I bothered. Five weeks and I’ve left this place maybe a handful of times, mostly for Starbucks.

And let me tell you, Starbucks has taken on religious status in my life these days.

Everything is relative. It really is. And when I pay attention to the way that relativity plays out, I realize it is the foundation of what makes us human. The good and the bad. The way we allow that relativity to mold our thoughts defines us.

We have another little warrior friend here at RMH going through the same treatment as Violet. She is 3, and she is a champion. Same diagnosis. Heartbreaking. And yet even under these circumstances, we compare. This treatment has not taken her down like it has Violet, and I’ve found myself in some moments almost jealous. How sick is that? Jealous that some beautiful little angel and her amazing mother get to leave their “cell” because they aren’t battling severe nausea and infections, again, for weeks.

It’s sick. But it’s human.

It’s Christmas, and there is a dark side here, too. Violet and I are now on week five on the Oncology floor of BC Children’s and are still only hopeful we will make it out for Christmas Day. I haven’t wanted to think about the dark for fear it would put out the light, but it’s real and it needs to be acknowledged. Santa may have to find us in here.

I haven’t wanted to write this because I know where my head and heart would be if I was home, and I know that’s likely where everyone else is right now. Santa photos. Putting up trees they cut down on a family trip into the forest. Planning Christmas dinner. Wrapping gifts. Decorating. They don’t need to hear about our hardships right now. Even for me, I have a little bit of resentment that the sadness of others is always being pushed so hard during the holidays. An ad for Children’s Hospice appears multiple times a day on my Facebook feed. It’s painful to watch, and guilt inducing, and rips me apart at the seams. Ho ho ho.

But then I pause. And am pausing now, as I write. In the dark breeds light. Sadness is a rich bed of meaning. When we are sad, it is because we care. Things mean something to us. This is the season of meaning, not just joy. Joy is merely an angle in which to view something of importance to us. So is pain and loss. So is grief and fear. We care about what we are looking at, and to live is to care. To feel.

All the feels. That’s life. That’s what Christmas is. It’s not about sweeping under the rug the ugly stuff. It’s about embracing it all. Love is at the core. Christmas is about recognizing the “point” of everything. Family. Togetherness. Empathy. Sharing. Taking care of one another. Loving those here and those passed. Missing what’s gone. Finding excuses to care.

I’ve always loved Christmas so much because it is a time of giving. It feels good to give. This year, I don’t have the same luxury I normally do. I see these ads for charities and realize that this year I have to accept I’m on the other side of the fence. It’s not something I can do anything about, and it’s not where I will be forever. Next year we wont’ be in a hospital room looking out as the houses light up, one by one, week after week, in preparation. I will be able to add toys to the donation truck instead of watching it pull up to the front door.

But this year, I can appreciate this unique angle. At Ronald McDonald House and BC Children’s, parents are invited into special toy rooms literally filled with goodies. They are told to take a big bag and fill it full so that these kids can have the Christmas they would have had at home. It is utterly overwhelming. My mom and I cried our eyes out when we walked in and witnessed this kind of generosity. My kids will not go unspoiled, and on top of it all, we get to feel right to the bone how much kindness and generosity there is in the world. Even upon entering the BMT room at the beginning of treatment, the hospital had put together a giant bin of new toys for Violet to play with since she can’t share with the rest of the kids on the floor.

Christmas behind a glass wall, but going home with an enormous sack full of toys. Six in one hand, half a dozen in the other. It’s delicate this year, finding where the meaning lies.

But imagine if we don’t have the glass wall to contend with, either. Just a giant sack full of toys and each other. From that angle, this may be the best Christmas yet.