Christmas Day 1970, Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, Dyer, Indiana.
Nan McCarthy
I was nine when our mom took my sister and me to the hospital on Christmas Day to visit our dad. It was the last time we’d see him alive. He died three weeks later of alcoholic cirrhosis. He was 39 years old.
We knew at the time he was very sick. In fact, I remember curling up with my mom in my dad’s favorite oversized green chair one night before Christmas, my head in her lap, Christmas lights twinkling. He’d been hospitalized several times before. “I don’t think he’s going to make it this time,” she told me.
The Intensive Care Unit was decorated for Christmas, and one of the nurses had put a Santa hat on my dad’s head. He was awake, sitting up in his hospital bed. He tried to smile at us, but even at that young age I could see the sadness in his eyes. I don’t think I touched him. I was afraid of all the tubes and how sick he looked.
For many years afterward, Christmas never felt real to me. The happiness seemed forced, superficial. Sure, getting presents was fun. But there was no joy in it. During Midnight Mass, my mom cried.
Then I fell in love and got married. A family of my own. New memories to make. At first it was just my husband and me, a few gifts around a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. But our love was plentiful and genuine. Then our sons were born. More memories to be made. My mom in her pink terrycloth bathrobe, watching us open gifts on Christmas morning, a cup of coffee in her hand and a smile on her face. New traditions, like the Santa footprints in front of the fireplace and a birthday cake for baby Jesus. Our boys jumping up and down in their pajamas, giddy with excitement. Pure joy on their faces. Pure joy in my heart.
Christmas is real to me now. But I’ve learned it’s not just about the happy times. Like any family, we’ve had our share of sad times during the holidays. Living far away from loved ones, missing out on annual family get-togethers. Christmases when one or both of us were without a job and money was tight or nonexistent. My mom’s last Christmas when she was in hospice at our house, knowing it wouldn’t be long before she, too, was gone. The year Christmas was just the boys and me, when Pat was serving in Iraq for thirteen months, his only physical contact a hug from the USO lady on Christmas Day.
I’ve come to realize that even though Christmas didn’t feel real to me when I was young, it was every bit as real then as it is now. It’s just that life and death, sickness and loneliness and tragedy don’t take time off for the holidays.
It’s no wonder Christmas lights, Midnight Mass, and Santa hats held a particular sadness for me as a child. But now I understand how much those seemingly superficial efforts at holiday cheer during the end of my dad’s tragic life mattered. “We’re not giving up on Christmas,” they said. The Santa hat mattered because it held hope. Hope that next year would be better (and if not next year, the year after that). Hope that a frightened little girl would one day make a better life for herself than the hand her mom had been dealt. That she wouldn’t fall prey to addiction the way her father had, even though her DNA was stacked against her. That she would one day find someone who loved and respected her, and together they would bring new life into the world. That they would raise their children to be better human beings than they were, leaving the world a little kinder than they found it.
Fills my eyes with tears, but what a beautifully written story. I’m happy I was able to meet your wonderful mother. xo
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Merry Christmas, Nancy! Your book Live ‘Til I Die has been a godsend for many of my students experiencing similar events with their parents.
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I’ve been teaching my yoga classes all month about darkness and light, Nan. Dark times – whatever that means – in our life is just as important as the light, bright good times. It’s all part of the richness and fullness of this life. This is beautiful. thank you for writing it. xo
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Discovered your website recently and when I saw your photo, your smile made me think of your Mom. This is your childhood friend Peggy and this blog you wrote about the last time you saw your Dad really touched my heart. As kids I had no idea all that you were going through but I do remember that you & your Mom would always say “I love you” as we left for school after your Dad died. I also remember thinking how strong you and your Mom and sister were. I’m truly so glad to see how happy you are now, I’ve wondered many times where you ended up in life. Merry Christmas to you & your family Nancy, hope your holidays are wonderful!!!
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Peggy! How wonderful to hear from you. I’m so glad you found me. I loved staying overnight at your house and hanging out with your family—your mom was always so kind to me. That you remember my mom and I exchanging “I love yous” every time we parted makes me smile. We continued that practice until she died in 2002, and the tradition continues here at the McCarthy house. I would love to hear more about what you’re doing—you can send me an email via the contact form here on the website (https://nan-mccarthy.com/contact/) if you want and we can continue the conversation via email. Merry Christmas to you too Peggy!
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I sent a message through the link you gave me but not sure it went through but I’ll write again after the holidays, cramming a lot of cooking in today. Have a wonderful Christmas Nancy!
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Always amazed by your strength. Thank you for sharing this reflection. Your love of life makes a bit more sense to me now. Love and hugs to your whole family!
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