December 22, 2023

Two years ago, we dickered, about how to decorate the tree. I was happy with the built-in white LEDs. The kid wanted some colored bulbs thrown in the mix. I strung lights around and around the artificial tree, winding the lights in and out and up and down to bring a rainbow of color to our otherwise plain tree.

The decorations were there, on the floor, near the tree. The discussion ended with the lights. I thought the tree looked lovely. The understatement and simplicity of the colored strings with the branches tipped with the built-in white lights. It lit the living room with holiday grace and joy. You complained about how decorating the tree could be painful for you. Your joints ached through activity. Still, over the next few days, you added ornament after ornament.

There are the old glass ones we inherited from our parents. There are the gift ornaments we received on our first Christmas as a married couple. There are the ones our daughter had gifted us over the years. Slowly, methodically, you completed the tree. The same one you swore you didn't want to decorate.

How much more would I have done, had I known, or even imagined, it would be the last tree we would decorate together? I cannot see a tree at this time of year, without rethinking that thought. Every blinking light is a reminder of my regrets.

One year ago, we had a plan. It was a hard few months, at least as far as your health was concerned. No doctor would listen. Your nephrologist took urine samples a week ago and should have had a clue. Your primary care physician was lost in his own grief at the passing of his mother and provided to assistance. I had even found a new PCP so that maybe someone would address the fact you couldn't eat, or move. I mean, I had to help you roll over in bed. I had to help you up to the bathroom. Every two hours I woke up to see if you needed to move or drink or pee or any other thing that you could need.

We had a plan. I was going to drive you to the ER of the teaching hospital. The best the area had. I had to drive you since the ambulance changed policy and would only take you to the closest hospital, no longer to the hospital of your choice. We tried that about 10 days prior and that ER discharged you within hours of our attempt.

You slept upstairs in our bed with me. It was the first time that happened in awhile. You had been staying on the couch so that we wouldn't disturb each other on the overnight. Due to our plan, you stayed upstairs with me. It was nice to have you next to me again. I know we didn't sleep worth a damn, but I had you next to me again.

How much more would I have savored it, had I known, or even imagined it would be the last time you would share our bed with me. I don't know what would have changed. Compared to you, I'm a giant. I was afraid of crushing you by accident. A simple rolling over could have been your end, but fuck, I would have held you as tightly and closely and as long as possible to savor every last second of that final night.

How could I know? We started around 1 a.m. You were ready to get to the ER. It took us nearly twelve hours just to get to the car. You were so fragile. A few steps, rest, repeat until we did the Herculean task of taking the long march of twelve feet, from the front door to the passenger seat. Where with eternal optimism, we set off for the hospital, hoping to find a solution.

This year, there is no tree, no lights, no decorations, or anything festive to be found around the house. Only a call to the last night you were here. I miss you. Every Christmas memory ends here in your absence. From my first memory of Santa to our last decorated tree to spending Christmas in the hospital by your side. Always hoping you would come home, but you didn't.