Holiday Spirit
II.II.VII
HOLIDAY SPIRIT
To most people, the holiday season is all about the magic, the hope, and the lights that come along with it. Despite the cold, everything feels warmer, as if everything’s right with the world. A winter wonderland full of cheer and festivities. Christmas trees, Santa Claus, all the gifts you could possibly ever receive, all the eggnog you could possibly drink, all the turkey you could possibly eat. A season of joy and happiness.
That’s how it used to be for me. My father would always go way over the top with Christmas decorations. I’m talking ornaments hanging from the ceiling, tinsel and poinsettias everywhere you looked, wreaths and holly on every door, candles and fairy lights twinkling, the classic Nativity crib, and an extravagant Christmas tree. We’d have friends and family over for the yearly party while he slaved away preparing all kinds of platters and finger food. A sense of warmth, comfort, and love permeated everything.
That didn’t last too long though. Little by little, the magic started to disappear. Like the first time I pulled Santa’s beard when I was five, effectively doing away with one of the holiday’s charms and letting my parents off the hook for getting me gifts from then on. That quickly led to jealousy, as I’d look at all the cool presents my friends received and compare them to the empty space beneath our Christmas tree.
Then I started growing up, and it was hope that began to vanish. I’d watch my friends enjoying this joyful time with their families, surrounded by loved ones. I, on the other hand, felt like I had no one. I’d walk down brightly lit streets on my own, wishing there was someone beside me – someone to keep me company, someone to hold my hand, someone to keep me warm. But that too felt like something I’d never get to enjoy. I was the black sheep of my family, and Christmas after Christmas, the idea of finding someone to spend my life with seemed to grow more unrealistic than ever.
Then it was the lights. My dad got sick, and as time went by, it became too much for him to handle. We tried to pitch in and recreate the same cheer he used to bring, but year after year, the Christmas clutter that once filled our home with tenderness and love grew scantier. When he died, so did any semblance of Christmas spirit. At first, the memories were simply too fresh. It was too painful to celebrate his favourite holiday without him around. Eventually, this became yet another tradition we quietly let go, added to the long list of things we’d already lost.
No magic. No hope. No light. Only sadness, sorrow, and grief, standing in stark contrast to everyone else’s happiness and bliss. Magic was replaced by the world’s evils, hope turned into hopelessness, and the lights were overshadowed by darkness. I dreaded the season’s arrival. I resented it.
And then I became a doctor. That’s when I started believing in Santa Claus again. Only this one was more akin to the Grim Reaper – his sack filled with charcoal and bad news more often than not. Little did I know that I could actually hate this holiday even more than I already did.
You see, this time of year isn’t particularly blissful for anyone working in a hospital – whether staff or patients stuck in the grimmest of places instead of spending time with friends and family. People falling off ladders while putting up Christmas decorations, bashing their heads open and dying on the spot. Drunk drivers with their innards splayed across the road. Fractures, brain bleeds, heart attacks. Homicides and suicides. All of that, and then some. It felt as though anything and everything that could go wrong would go wrong right around this time.
Given that I’m not a fan of the holidays, I’d always volunteer to work. I try to keep myself upbeat and jolly for the sake of my patients – the ones going through the worst moments of their lives during what’s meant to be the happiest time of the year. The ones away from their loved ones. The ones with no one by their side. The ones whose only wish is relief from pain and suffering. I try my best to keep my spirits high and not let any of it get to me. Only that proves next to impossible sometimes.
You see, most days blur together on the wards, but every so often, one moment brands itself into you. I thought I’d learned how to survive Christmas in hospital – until I met him.
Chris was a man in his thirties whom we had just diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. Happy friggin’ Christmas. He would likely be dead within a few months, meaning this was the last Christmas he’d ever experience. His parents took turns keeping him company, though he was unconscious most of the time. While on call, I walked into his room to find his mother sitting beside him, sobbing in pure agony, clutching his almost lifeless hands. My eyes welled up the moment she looked up at me.
There was something different about her expression. We see those faces all the time, yet somehow, this one stayed with me. Despite how bleak things may be, most patients and their families still cling to hope. And hope, no matter how small, shows. Her face said otherwise. She was completely resigned. She knew there was no hope. She had already let go of her son. It reminded me of my mother as she stood by my dying father. That used to be the saddest image I could conjure – my mother’s widow-to-be eyes. This felt eerily similar.
I froze, choking on my words, unable to find anything that might provide comfort. What the hell can anyone say to make such a moment less tragic? “He looks comfortable…” I finally managed. “Not in pain.” Somehow, impossibly, she smiled. I inserted the cannula I’d been tasked with and prepared to leave, ready to move on to the long list of jobs waiting for me. I couldn’t. Instead, I sat down beside her and asked if she needed anything. “No, you already did everything you could…” she replied. I felt heartbroken, completely helpless. I placed my hand on her shoulder, trying to show her that she wasn’t alone.
I reassured her that we’d take care of him and keep him company if she wanted to spend some time at home with her family, though it was clear that celebrating the holiday was the last thing on her mind. And with that, I left the room, leaving behind a grieving mother about to lose her son. I couldn’t give less of a damn about Christmas, but knowing it was such a special time for so many people, it broke my heart knowing these people would never get to celebrate this holiday ever again.
Somewhere out there, the lights were glowing – but in that room, Christmas had already ended. And while the world celebrated, I walked away from a mother carrying the entire weight of the world on her shoulders. Happy friggin’ Christmas.