“Merry Christmas”, my Dad cheerfully greeted me one day in August of 2008. It was my birthday. Dad is a post stroke patient and he has recovered most of his motor functions, but he has speech deficit. Either he cannot say what he means, or he utters an entirely different word or words, or says something gibberish. But he hasn’t lost his excellent sense of humor, so whenever he’s stumped or in this case, to both our surprise, “Happy Birthday”, came out as “Merry Christmas”, we have a good laugh and go on with the business of the day. Until this day, he cannot say my name or any other name of family members, and he still has difficulty saying what he means, but in our last telephone conversation a few days ago, he was able to tell me in English that he “ can now think clearly and is able to express” himself more.
This year, my parents will experience their first White Christmas with my siblings and their children. If they were here in the Philippines, we would have continued with the family tradition of decorating the Christmas tree together. As a young family, many decades ago, my siblings and I grew up sprucing up the tree which Dad made in the backyard from bamboo sticks. You see, aside from being the best general practitioner in our little town, Dad is also a hands-on parent, a carpenter, a gardener and a farmer. When it’s time to make the tree, Dad would proceed to the backyard, after his patients at the clinic have gone and before going to his rounds in the hospital, to perform his most important task of the day. Having finished the bare tree, Dad and Mom would usually go downtown together to purchase crepe paper, paste, glitters, Christmas balls, Christmas lights and some cotton. The sound of the motor of the vehicle would announce their arrival and my siblings and I would all gather around the bamboo tree in eager anticipation. The fastest child would normally grab the clothes scissors—the biggest pair in the house and take the paramount task of cutting crepe paper for leaves. The rest would either try to make more leaves while struggling with a small pair of school scissors, or curl the cut leaves with a spoon, or paste the leaves on the branches. We would sometimes quarrel as children were wont to do when they didn’t get the tool they wanted, but it wouldn’t last long since the tree was like a strong magnet and the materials are a plenty. Soon, the bamboo tree transformed into the most magical Christmas tree, adorned from top to bottom by busy little hands, and completed by a touch of cotton here and there, to mimic snow. We always had our White Christmas even then. The highlight of the event was Dad’s lighting of Christmas lights…
Last year, in November, about nine months after Dad returned home from hospital confinement of about three months, I made him join me in decorating our commercial Christmas tree. He has made a lot of progress since his day one at home. Among other things, he relearned how to walk, how to talk, how to feed himself, his relationship with us, even how to operate the video machine. But Christmas was to be remembered. He was confused at first, and refused to participate, probably not comprehending what I was about to do. So I just went ahead, I slowly assembled the different parts of the plastic tree, until it resembled a Christmas tree. I opened the box containing lights, Christmas balls, small toys and glitters, then proceeded to randomly hang the tiny decors on the branches. Seeing and maybe recalling our family Christmas tree tradition, Dad eventually took part in the activity, though tentatively at first, still unsure of how to express his artistic side. Gentle persuasion, plenty of patience and continuous praise never faltered in motivating him. Before I knew it, Dad, was zealously furnishing the tree with glitters and cotton on the branches. With a twinkle in his eye, he even managed to string a ball which lost its original string and proudly showed it to me, before finding the perfect spot for it on the tree. The next day, Dad joyfully ushered the neighbors’ kids into the living room to admire the Christmas tree.
The Christmas ball and its string are still there, proudly hanging on the tree. I’ll show it to him when he returns home with Mom come January 2010.
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