A Bedtime Story for Christmas Eve
My mother died of lung cancer fourteen years ago this past December 15 th . It's amazing to me how long she has been gone! She was diagnosed only in the autumn of that year, passed away quietly at home on a Friday evening, and was buried in the middle of a wild, early snowstorm on December 20 th . I was grateful that she had been spared most of the physical suffering that usually accompanies this type of cancer, and had resigned myself to letting her depart in peace. My Dad, however, was inconsolable. Since retiring, he had built his whole life around Mom. She was the sun around which his little planet revolved. He had planned to die first, and could not believe that she had somehow predeceased him. He had no hobbies. He had no faith to sustain him. He insisted that no one had ever felt this way before; no one could help him with his grief. He would not come home with me for Christmas. He wanted to be alone. In the late afternoon of Christmas Eve, Dad went to the cemetery,