When I was eight I received one of the most powerful and cherished Christmas gifts of my life. And it came by way of my father’s “heart attack.”
I remember being at school in early November. It was unusually warm for Winnipeg and there was yet to be snow on the ground. The school got a phone call and I was summoned to the office. “Your father has had a massive heart attack,” I was told. “Your mom is at the hospital. You’ll have to go home with a friend today.”
My dad was going to die.
My dad was going to die. This was the only thought that went through my head. I don’t remember the bell ringing for recess but I do remember standing outside not knowing what to do. I looked for a place to be alone, somewhere to digest the news. I sat camouflaged by the bushes bordering the school away from other children. I raked my fingers through the warm dirt. I put my back to the hard brick. I watched cars and listened to dogs bark. Aware of my aloneness, I wondered if I should cry. It felt like the appropriate response, so I willed the tears to come. Nothing.
This was the first year in our house on Fisher Street. My sister had just started kindergarten. What were we going to do without a father?
Would we be poor? Who would take me to the pool on the weekends? What would I do without my dad?
In the coming weeks we would learn, through the diligent observation of an old Germanic nurse named Bertha, that my father did not, in fact, have a massive heart attack, but rather pericarditis – a virus that caused an inflammation around the sac of his heart.
This was good news, but it also meant my father was going to remain in a weakened state for months and off work.
It was a hard adjustment for all of us. Typically, my dad was incredibly active, up and off to the office before we opened our eyes and playing rounds of squash after work every day. We weren’t used to seeing him much at all, let alone lying on the couch pathetically watching talk shows.
Christmas was fast approaching and my sister and I spent our time making chains out of red and green construction paper with globs of gluey gold sparkles with which to wrap the banister in the foyer. We worked hard to brighten the house that year. But one thing was sorely missing: a tree.
Once school holidays began my sister and I built a quinze in the backyard out of the mountains of snow that had accumulated since receiving the news about our father’s health. I remember being snuggled inside when we heard muffled voices. And them WOOSH, a huge pile of snow landed with a thud above our heads. And then another. And another.
I popped my head out and there was our family friend and neighbour Brian, shovel in hand, clearing the sidewalk near our fort. His wife Jutta was standing arm in arm with my mom, who was holding a tree at arm’s length. They were admiring its long, fine needles. A Scotch pine, they said. We’d never had a Scotch pine before.
Then in the midst our rejoicing, a car pulled up with a tree strapped to the roof! It was Karen and Al. They jumped out and hugs were given all around.
We had not one, but two trees!
The following morning we were greeted by a boisterous knock. When my sister and I pulled open the big oak door here stood Barry, a giant tree under his arm, spilling out the front porch and into the yard.
Christmas had shaped up to be pretty good after all.
That Christmas, while dad was convalescing, I think we all came to a deeper understanding of the holiday. Even as a child it wasn’t lost on me – the kindness that was shown and the fact that there was a community of friends and neighbours that cared enough to ensure we ALL had a Merry Christmas.
