Fresh Hell Bizarre Family Story - Why Christmas Is Tough

Tis the season to get a little morose, oui?

Long ago, as a newly-minted teenager thinking thoughts no more weighty than that of an errant butterfly, a Christmas came and went when yet again I and my siblings received only gifts from my father rather than a rare but welcomed visit.

Barely two weeks later we received a call from my stepmother, my father's second wife, who said my father had cancer and wasn't expected to live another twelve months.

I remember being shocked to my core and terrified nearly beyond words. We couldn't possibly know what was going to happen - to him, to us. It was as if that news swept away all normality and put in its place something else, the fear of the unknown. And it was not like it would be unknown forever; just beyond comprehension for a time, a reality which would prove to be the cruelest cut of all.

Once the shock of the initial news had worn off the realization of this unwelcome and horrifying future seeped into everyday life like a light filtered through dulled and filthy window panes. Of course we went to school and life went on - there were tests to take, games to play, teenage emotional dramas in which to act. We tried to make the best of everyday occurances. We tried not to think about our level of ignorance about the disease, and tried not to be appalled at the doctors' level of ignorance about treating the disease.

Thirty-one years ago cancer wasn't discussed in a normal tone of voice. It was hushed up, it was whispered; it simply wasn't talked about. The doctors, in their panicked attempts to halt cancer's slow but inexorable progess, proscribed treatment levels of radioactivity, most especially treatments involving cobalt, that are judged barbaric by the standards of the 21st century.

And it was all for naught.

The father I barely knew - the "golden boy" athlete who was the star of every sport in which he competed - a man who took his familial responsibilities seriously, possessing a razor-sharp wit and humorous mien, a man definitely ill-suited to my mother but at last in a loving marriage, a man reluctant to be a father, was reduced to nothing much at all, and was dead at the age of 36 the day after Christmas 1975, 3 days before my 14th birthday.

After that, the holiday season was never an easy time for me. I suspect in many ways it still haunts me, because there is a real and seldom touched part of me who longs to curl up snugly within the traditions of my very young childhood and revel in their solemn wide-eyed innocence, and another part of me that is older, sadder and wiser who flings open wide the doors and takes to heart the adage of "eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die". For who knows what tomorrow may bring.

The somber me and the skipping me will always be playing at tug of war, I fear, and in turn during every holiday season I seem destined to play host to both.