Christmas Day
By: Morgan J. Lehman
Tags: Christmas, Memories, Family, Heartbreak, Love

Christmas Day

Christmas Day 1970ish? As a side note, the piece below really should be presented as a monologue, however, you know…2020.

It was a day. It began as so many days do. Neither more nor less bright or dim, quiet or loud, happy or sad. Sure, it was a winter break day and unlike a regular summer break type of day, there was the overtone of Christmas everywhere; chill in the air, bright sunlight, the smell of pine and presents all through the house. After all, it was Christmas Eve. So maybe not like all the other days at all. But it was a day none the less and it had a beginning.

The morning was a blur as is usual when you’re 13…some sort of breakfast, maybe some reading (yes I am a nerd) or some tv and most definitely some outside time as Sacramento winters are exceptionally conducive to such things. Again, nothing extraordinary to mark the day as it ramped up. My real remembrance of the day begins about 1:30 in the afternoon. Mom was cleaning and tidying for a little party we (meaning she) was hosting that night for some friends and colleagues. Standard foody tidbits, possibly fondue, as we did have the requisite gold paisley wallpaper in the hallway, so had to have a 70’s nod somewhere for the party; wine and beer and bourbon, music of course (most likely something I didn’t like then; however, oddly enough, something I would most likely enjoy now). I remember kind of dreading it. It wasn’t my party and my friends weren’t coming and I didn’t drink. And adults were boring at times. Again, in a strange twist of fate, it was to be the kind of party that as an adult I find wonderful and charming; food, conversation, drinks, music, more food and conversation, many stories and reminiscences, possibly games. However as a kid, wonderful and charming were not words I associated with almost any adult party. Eye rolls and heavy sighs were my usual response to these occurrences. In any event, there my brother Mitch and I were not helping my mom clean and tidy. Doing a fine job of it too.

Then it happened.

After a particularly frustrated and exasperated set of comments directed towards us by an equally exasperated and frustrated mom, she dropped the vacuum and sort of collapsed into a sitting position on the floor. As she dressing us down, so to speak, we were paying some attention to her, so Mitch and I weren’t so oblivious or unmindful that we knew something wasn’t right immediately. She said to call an ambulance and asked Mitch to help her to the bathroom. So I called 911. At least I think it was 911. Maybe it was the operator. You might remember that little “0” on the rotary dial phone that when dialed allowed one to speak to a person who helped you connect with whomever you needed. I remember that the person I spoke with said she was contacting the fire department because she informed me that an ambulance is automatically dispatched with a fire rescue call. Odd that I remember that bit to this day. Specific. Useful. Still with me today and has served me well in calling 911 for other things throughout my life.

I remember I went deathly calm. I was scared, but the fear was off in the distance, present but not intrusive. It was the first time I had done that, that I can remember. I now know it’s my particular flight or fight response. I go coldly analytical, taking in everything I can at the moment. Great for short term functioning, bad for long term memory. As for the rest of the day, all I can remember of what happened directly after that fateful call are a series of still images and vignettes. Mom and Mitch in the bathroom. She was talking to him and telling him how to help her. (No idea what was said at the time, but I learned later that it was spot on as far as directions to help her went…it seems I know where my icy calm comes from in crisis).

Putting on some ankle zip boots, hand-me-downs from my brother that I loved, however questionable the fashion choice may have been.

Going outside and flagging down the fire truck.

Firemen coming in, being mindful of the furniture in the hallway. Mom and Mitch in the ambulance. Me staying home, as mom’s best friend Sandy was on the way and I needed to meet her and tell her what happened, even though I wouldn’t know what actually happened until much, much later. Calling Dad to tell him that Mom was in the hospital. That sucked.

I don’t remember much of anything else till Dad got to our house and Mitch came back from the hospital. Come to think of it, Mitch may not have come back from the hospital. I’ve no idea and due to life happenings, meaning that my brother and father are no longer here to shed light on my questions from that day, those questions shall remain unanswered forever. However, it’s not germane to the story, so we can move on.

Sandy drops by and I tell her mom’s in the hospital and she takes over the party cancellation duties. I say this matter of fact now, although I’m not really sure what was said. What I do know is that no one came over that night, so I’m sure she did the job.

More blur…It’s now about 4ish and Dad had me/us gather a backpack with some stuff and off we went to the hospital. What I remember crystal clear was what I packed: a book, a box of crackers and a new game, King of the Mountains.

Off to the hospital.

Next were hospital smells of antiseptic and worry, asking directions at the desk, the elevator ride…then…boredom ensued. What can I say, I was 13. The adrenaline had long worn off and I guess I’ve never been a serious worrier. And we just got there and my dad didn’t know a whole lot, which meant that we knew even less. Yes, I heard vaguely that she had to have surgery and that they were prepping her now and blah blah blah, but after that 5 minutes of listening to doctors speak in hushed tones, it turned into waiting.

Big waiting.

The long hard wait.

It wasn’t “just” waiting, it was boredom turned into the worst kind of worried waiting. Anxious, nervous, the ever present smell of hospital sanitation all around, deafening, uncomfortable silences pierced by the quiet buzzing of fluorescent lights, punctuated by moments of Dad holding his head in his hands or sharply looking up and around, eyes glazed and unfocused, the occasional code call over the loudspeaker.

What followed was not a memorable time for me in any way. It was just passing time. I know I ate some crackers, opened my game, maybe read some, fidgeted a bit, yet I have no clear memories of any of that. Just glimpses. I know I was practical, just the how and what and when are blurry.

My next memory was walking into the recovery room, there was a big clock on the wall that I remember seeing. 2:25am. Mom peacefully laying on the gurney, shaved head wrapped in bandages, my dad stricken, my brother numb. I don’t remember what I felt. Maybe terrified for a split second as realization hit. I was lost. I know that. Sad. I was there to say my goodbyes. Mitch and Dad may already have, I didn’t notice them any more. I know I touched her hand. I didn’t want to hug her. She was gone already. Her soul had left.

It was Christmas Day, 1980.

Edna Sheila Helen (McGhee) Lehman

April 21st (Easter Sunday) 1935 — December 25th (Christmas Day) 1980

She was 45

There is more that happened in the following days and weeks which is worth writing down; however, it wasn’t my favourite time nor favourite memories. Not just the acute sadness, that’s faded over time, but rather the memories of events and people that would shape the course of my life. A big part of this are some things about my father that I would not recognize, realize or understand for many years.

During the time in the hospital and the next few weeks after, I can’t remember ever seeing my dad so distraught, so full of absolute abject sadness. So lost. He wasn’t a worrier either, he just didn’t worry. He didn’t fret. He was a product of his generation in this regard. Not stoic, but he just did things. Got things done. No drama. No continuous mulling of an issue or problem. No dread. Just action.

What I didn’t know then, was that Dad had much more information than I did about Mom and what had happened, which was why he was different this time. He knew that she had a massive aneurysm that burst in her brain and an equally massive blood clot and that he would most likely be having a conversation no parent ever wants to have with his children. As a parent, I understand this and I still can’t grasp how terrible that conversation must have been for him. Especially given that he was still in love with my mom. It turns out they were the loves of each other’s lives. They kept that quiet all that time through the divorce and their other failed relationships. In fact it was 5 or 6 years later that he was able to find love again and married…and he was happy. However, he was there for us as his heart broke a final time. A true parent in the moment…which is exactly why I didn’t know the extent of his loss and sadness until I figured it out. It was his burden and he shouldered it and accepted it without hesitation. I wish I could hug and hold him, and thank him directly for that. He has passed as well; however, I will throw my arms around him when I see him in my dreams.