Note: I wrote this, but did not publish it, on Christmas evening in 2018, less than a week after Dad was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. Dad passed away on Aug. 5, 2019, at age 74.
Barring a miracle, today was my father’s last Christmas. I’d hoped it would be a joyous occasion, but most of the day, especially through his eyes, felt like survival.
It’s only been five days since we found out he had six months to live, and though we’ve had time to take that in, it’s still extremely difficult. I’ve broken down more times than I can count, often when I’m alone.
Christmas has been hectic day since my wife and I began dating eight years ago. We typically end up making at least three stops and sometimes five. This year, we had three stops, beginning with a late-morning Christmas at my brother’s.
For years, my father, who lives a mile from brother, sister-in-law and their five kids, has spent the morning watching his grandkids open presents during the first wave of Christmas. My wife and I, along with one to three kids (we alternate years of custody with their father), arrive at about 10 a.m. for the second wave.
This year, we were fortunate that our son, Brody, and his girlfriend and baby girl, my dad’s first great-grandchild, wanted to join us, along with my daughter Molly. Countless times today I thought about this being the last time Brody, Kit and Koen, our granddaughter, would see my Dad.
Dad was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in 2017 and lost about 50 pounds during chemo and after a surgery to remove part of his stomach. We’ve become accustomed to how frail he is after a rough 18 months.
But it was difficult to day to see him on his favorite day of the year. He just didn’t seem into it. He looked exhausted. He didn’t say much. He was going through the motions. There were hundreds of photos, hugs and smiles, plenty of laughs, but it just wasn’t the same.
We left at 1 p.m. to spend the next phase of Christmas at my in-laws, where we ate lunch and opened more presents. I knew during this time my dad was at his house taking a nap and probably trying to hold it together for dinner that evening.
I drove back to my brother’s place in the afternoon, and we had dinner at 5 p.m. I sat next to my dad, who had an incredibly small plate of food. One small piece of ham, a small croissant, a few baked beans and small spoonful of mashed potatoes.
Things like this are one of the reasons I loathe cancer. This is supposed to be a day when you can indulge and enjoy a big meal. My dad only felt like eating a damn appetizer. At least he got to eat a small piece of pumpkin pie.
Throughout dinner, I was struck by how quiet it was. That’s not our family by any stretch. Only a few of us at the table knew of the latest diagnosis. Dad didn’t want to tell the grandkids until after Christmas. But, kids aren’t dumb. They know something’s amiss. It was a rather somber dinner.
Afterward, as we sat on the couch and watched an NBA game, I asked my dad if he was feeling OK. I know he’s hurting. I can see it. He’ll just never admit it. He did admit that he was tired and said, “I’m just grateful that I made it through Christmas.” I said, “You mean without breaking down?” He nodded his head. A few minutes later, we were both the on the way home.
I’m heart-broken that this vicious, crushing disease robbed my dad and family of Christmas. This is a day we all love. It’s one of the few times we all come together and celebrate our family. We laugh, we hug, we love, we eat, we live.
Christmas has always been a big deal to my father, at least as long as he’s been a dad. I think it’s a big deal to him because he really didn’t have much of a Christmas growing up. I know his childhood is why he’s always been a great parent.
My brother and I did not grow up with much money. Only recently did I learn my parents, who had a small arts and crafts business when we were kids, got through January to March (there aren’t any craft shows during these months) by using their credits cards to pay for groceries and various bills.
Dad and Mom always worked incredibly hard, and it was common for both of them to be at a craft show every weekend from April through October. Then at least one of them was away for a month working a Christmas show in a mall.
Those Novembers and Decembers were tough. We might not see one or both parents for several days, even weeks leading up to Christmas. Back in those days, Christmas got us through the following year.
Despite the struggles, Dad always made sure we had a good Christmas. In 1981, after a surprisingly good winter show selling stained glass, we came home to dozens of presents, including brand new Huffy bikes and Lite Brites.
That became a theme for the next several years as my brother and I grew up. We’d go to bed on Christmas Eve with virtually nothing under the tree and wake up bright and early to a living room so full your barely had room to walk.
In 1982, I woke up to an Army train set. GI Joe was my jam back in those days. A few years later, it was a GI Joe Fighter jet. All of these gifts were wrapped in newspaper, another staple of the Webb Family Christmas.
I think about those times often. Our Dad and Mom would work Christmas shows, sometimes two hours away why we stayed with friends or relatives, busting their asses during 12-hour days for a month straight to not only feed us, but also give us they best Christmas they could.
In 1986, my Dad worked at the big mall in Columbia, Missouri (there were two malls in the city then), until 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve, somehow finding time to buy a small fortune’s worth of gifts that day, packed up his booth, drove three hours through ice and sub-zero temperatures, then spent the next two or three hours with my mother wrapping up presents. All for his boys.
My favorite Christmas was in 1988. For months, my brother and I had pined and begged for the latest, greatest toy: the Nintendo. We knew it was a long shot. Dad wasn’t big on spending $100 on a video game system, especially when the games also cost a ridiculous amount ($50 each, or about $150 in today’s money).
We awoke to the typical bounty of gifts strewn across the floor. After 90 minutes of opening presents, it was clear we weren’t getting the coveted Nintendo. But we were grateful, and I’d like to think humble kids, and we didn’t complain.
Dad came up to me, gave me a hug, and said, “Did you get everything you wanted?” I said, “Yes, thank you, Dad. I love you.” He smiled. My mother asked my brother the same thing while my father spoke with me.
After a pause, my dad said, “Well, there is one more thing that we forgot to bring out.” Dad walked in my parents’ bedroom and came back out with his poker face, setting the rectangular present, wrapped in newspaper, of course, in front us.
We slowly began to peel off the newspaper, and it only took a slither of torn paper to reveal our last present: the Nintendo. My brother and I high-fived and celebrated. My parents laughed and laughed. Man, Dad loved Christmas.
My hope is that those Christmases are the ones my brother and I remember, and not the last one. I’m incredibly grateful that we got to spend time together, but I’m angry and sad that Dad fought like hell to get through it without breaking down.
But I’m also grateful that he passed on the Christmas spirit to his sons, and that will live on in his memory.