And so the Christmas tradition evolves—now I step into my father's role on Christmas Eve…
I sit in a chair directly opposite my father. His eyes are clear today, a sign he's having a good day. We chat a bit with my mother. "Grandpa," my little one yells, "I want to eat cake with you!" Dad smiles and tries to respond steadily, though it takes effort. He nods and swallows instead.
Parkinson's disease.
I order apple pies and hear my little one calling from afar: "With whipped cream, Mama! Mamaaa, do you hear me? I want whipped cream. Grandpa does too!"
I glance at my father, startled by the noise. For a moment, I worry it's overwhelming, but I see him quietly enjoying it. I breathe a sigh of relief.
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It's nearly Christmas, and we're still deciding on plans. "Dad, I'll come over on December 24th in the afternoon instead of evening." He nods, murmuring "Nice" with effort.
I sense his appreciation. "Dad, should I invite others?" He shakes his head, eyes downcast, perhaps feeling shame or guilt over his illness. Mom rubs his back: "It's too much for him."
I watch his face intently, then his mouth, waiting for his words. His jaw moves as he gathers saliva. He nods in agreement with Mom, then whispers, "I can't focus on everyone at once." It pains us both.
Back then, the three of us—my sister, Dad, and I—gathered in the kitchen, buzzing with excitement. Mom pulled out the trusty plastic bowl for our family favorite: the traditional fruit bowl.
We opened cherry jars, added fruits, and prepped plastic wrap. Police Academy, our Christmas movie staple, was queued up.
My brother held the couch, while my sister and I helped Dad. I was young, not quite ready for 'real' work, but thrilled counting cheese cubes, brie toasts, liver sausage slices, and ham-pickle rolls. I didn't realize this joy wouldn't last forever.
The snacks vanished fast—my brother devoured them. Sliding off the couch, we three ended up on the floor, snacks in easy reach.
This ritual repeated for years until we moved out. Dad never pressured us amid our busy lives with relationships, kids, work, and friends. His one steadfast request: Christmas Eve together. Snacks, fruit bowl, gifts under the tree—just like always. In good years, the 'white envelope' with its sticky edge brought emotional surprises.
Recently retired, Dad walked to the mall daily. One day, he chatted with our doctor, who suggested a visit. Soon after, hospital tests.
I called from work: "How'd it go?" Silence, then a sob—from my father, who never cries.
"Dad?" He cleared his throat: "I have Parkinson's disease."
Stunned silence. The world spun; I fought tears. My dear father whispered, "From now on, I'm the patient."
Months later: "Can we do Christmas at your place?" "Absolutely," I said. The whole spread hit my floor: cheese cubes, brie toasts, liver sausage, ham-pickle rolls. I now knew the excitement was fleeting.
Years passed. Dad withdrew, grew absent, depressed, forgetful. Inevitably, the nursing home. Sleepless nights, profound grief as we moved him—our family united. Home would never be the same.
With Dad in mind, I carry on his tradition. On Christmas Eve, I gather my kids for gifts under the tree. I smile seeing them with cheese cubes, brie toasts, liver sausage slices, and ham-pickle rolls.
-x-
Ievy
