Oh my friends, to suggest that I could teach you how to survive anything is incredibly presumptuous as to any sort of qualifications I have as a person. What the title should read is, I survived Christmas with a hospitalized father. Kind of . . .

The aftermath of yesterday laid strewn all over the house. Bits of wrapping paper, cookie crumbs, empty boxes, and popped off clothing tags, half-empty battery packs, power cords, random single socks AND that was just the front room, there were four more rooms covered in Christmas chaos.

I wasn’t ready to dig in and clean it all up. I still wanted to be in the day. I still wanted to stay in the place where the kids were excited to see it all.

Truth be told, I don’t know if I even paid attention when they made their way down the open staircase, a ritual I look forward to every Christmas morning.

This Christmas was different. This Christmas my father was hospitalized and has been for five weeks. The excitement of the holiday was stained by my thoughts of him in the hospital.

He alone due to Covid.

An infection due to a kidney stone,UTI, and sepsis kept him medicated and weak.

He was tortured by an aging body.

I couldn’t sleep on Christmas Eve. I kept thinking of him. I thought of my stepmom and how much I missed seeing them.

I thought of how much my children have been asking for them.

I thought of how the beauty of a life can change in an instant.

So, I don’t know if I even slept on Christmas Eve. I just don’t. I didn’t take a single photo of them coming down the steps. Not a picture taken during the opening of the presents. Maybe I was staying in the moment, taking it all in. Humility kept me from snapping pictures of their presents to post on social media. I’m just not in that place in my life.

I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop feeling sad for the man who taught me how to love Christmas. A man who painstakingly, diligently, and happily put up, designed, and decorated seven Christmas trees every year. A man who welded up with tears when I told him I was pregnant, only to finally catch his breath and tell me my child would love Christmas.

The day after Christmas was usually a let down of emotion, but this year it was like all the days since my father was admitted to the hospital, anxious, sad, and filled with questions. Who can best care for him now? What can be done? Where do we go from here? When can he come home? Why do I feel so helpless? How will he get better?

I don’t hide my emotions from my children, I never have. Pain shared is pain lessened. We gathered together on Christmas and smiled about their Poppy and we shared a daydream of what future Christmases would look like when he was better. It felt so heavy at such a joyous time. I felt a twinge of guilt taking any of that joy from them, but I knew they were strong enough for the tough stuff.

I knew that because they’ve raised with love and empathy for others’ emotions, even mine. And when we were done praying, they went off and created more fantastic messes throughout the house.