Coming Home for Christmas

When the choruses of "Jingle Bells" and "Hark the Herald" had finally faded from the mouths of the carolers and the millions of radio stations and television broadcasts, when the night had approached the midnight hour, and when the children really were all nestled and snug in their beds, the red and green lights of the season still shone out in an aurora-like haze from the living room downstairs. I'd left them on because I had always taken comfort in their warmth and dim festivity. Even in my late teens, it was a cozy feeling on Christmas Eve, to know that my mother and father were upstairs in their bed, catching sleep to survive the busy goings-on of the following day. Those lights somehow assured me of that.

I'd closed my eyes to drift off to sleep, reveling in the atmosphere of the holiday - a holiday that still meant something to me. That still spoke to some aspect of my soul even though my religious faith and belief had already dissipated into the beginnings of a life-long search for meaning. I surveyed through tiny slits of half-conscious eyes that glow from the downstairs, and the tiny light of an electric candle - one of which adorned each window in our suburban home. My alertness waxed and waned until finally I succumbed to sleep.

My reverie was broken at around 2am - another red light was beckoning my attention. This, however was not related to the holiday. It was the flashing light of my volunteer firefighter pager, accompanied by the piercing beeping that could cut the deepest slumber. The metallic voice which followed the alert reported that a man was unconscious, and the address was merely seven blocks from where I lay.

I dutifully donned my night-response clothes and stumbled bleary-eyed out to my car. The snow made crisp, squeaking sounds as I trudged through all three feet of it. We'd had a significant snowfall that night, and the evening had been full of the sounds of snow-blowers and shovels. I'd had the good sense to clean off my car since I was on night squad. Still, the snow came down by the bushel-full, as if poured by a thousand invisible angles. It twinkled in the lights of the neighboring houses, and flakes stuck with biting kisses on my forehead and cheeks.

The car started up quickly, but the heat never came - there wasn't enough time for the engine to warm up during the short trip down the street. Windshield wipers pushed away some of the fresh offerings from the sky, but the thick dusting of new snow hindered any visibility, and even if my car had been completely snow-free, I'd have had trouble navigating the streets. As it was, I piloted by memory of the neighborhood, guessing the locations of intersections and stop signs. My blue rotating light, completely unnecessary at that point, did little but reflect off billions of little ice flakes, tinting them blue as well. The high snow slowed my response, and I knew it would hinder the response of our rescue truck and the ambulance. After a four minute drive, I was able to discern a porch light which was turned on, causing the house to stand out from others around it with no such luminance. Another vehicle was parked near the driveway as well - headlights on, and half buried with snow. A fellow responder, most likely.

I left my car running with the blue light zapping the blustering flakes and headed into the house through the open garage door. The scene that met me was a sublime mixture of chaos and sadness. On the floor lay a man in his 70's. He was not conscious, and another firefighter was performing CPR. The area around him was soaked with melting snow and slush. There were Christmas lights illuminating the kitchen wall, and a small, festive tree stood watch only feet away. Other responders were arriving slowly to help, and the professionalism of the rescue attempt would have left the scene quiet and regimented were it not for the proverbial elephant in the room. Everyone was trying to ignore it, but there she sat - an elderly Italian woman sitting in a swivel chair in the living room. She was screaming at the very top of her lungs, and with one leg she was pushing herself around in infinite circles. She was so distraught that she could not even answer questions about her husband's medical history. Every response was a siren-like "please God help me!"

We went to work, as we always do, trying to look away from the spectacle of the woman - a sight which under any other circumstance would have provoked unbridled hysterics. But here, with the specter of this dead man hanging somewhere in the vicinity, a fat women spinning endlessly on a rotating chair was anything but funny. Medics arrived, and CPR led to IV lines and drugs. A breathing tube was placed after the man's throat was suctioned - he'd vomited everywhere. The falling action then began. We wrapped the man up, carried him out to the ambulance, and continued our efforts during a long, bumpy, snowy ride to the closest local hospital.

When we arrived we were met by the ER staff. They heard our report and quickly went to work, but the outcome had been decided long before the man had hit the floor, and certainly long before any of us became involved in his life. In the end, the doctor on duty pronounced the man dead. I don't recall the time, but somewhere around 3:30am was the final notation. He was wrapped in a plastic shroud, his body tagged, and he was taken to the morgue to await whatever would come next. None of us ever saw his wife again - for all I know she is still there, fifteen years later, spinning in that chair.

Adrenaline gave way to reflection. I saw the man's face - grey and ashen. I saw his dignity raped by the tubes in his mouth and arms, and the vomit clinging to his graying moustache. I imagined grandchildren's gifts unopened under the tree at his house - gifts he'd never get to see them enjoy. I envisioned a lonely old woman whose Christmas memories would forever be tainted by the thought of her beloved coming in from shoveling snow, and falling dead before the Christmas tree. All these things crossed my mind as I walked out to the fire truck for a ride back to the scene; as I surveyed the still forceful blizzard that washed us all with white flakes; as I got back into my blue-lit vehicle and navigated my way back home.

I opened the door to our house. Mom and Dad were still sleeping peacefully upstairs, and the Christmas lights still cast festive colored shadows on the walls and up the stairwell, but the colors somehow seemed dimmer, and the silent night would never hold the same peace for me again.

I crept up the stairs so as not to wake my family. I headed not for my bed, but for my parent's room. Slowly I opened the door, suppressing the inevitable hinge squeak, and tip-toed to where my father lay in perfect Christmas slumber. I leaned over very close, and with the gentle tap of a landing butterfly I touched a hand to his chest, and listened for his breath to come. I wanted to be sure he was still with me, for some other part of me had just been stolen. And there, in the dark, under the sigh of his slow respirations, I whispered "I love you, Dad. Merry Christmas"