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All I Want For Christmas

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By D'ANN LAWRENCE WHITE | The Tampa Tribune

Published: January 2, 2008

Brandon - Brandon - He keeps asking me what I want for Christmas. I suspect my husband is egging my son on behind the scenes. My husband is clueless when it comes to gift buying.

When I tell Ian that I already received the ultimate Christmas present 12 years ago, he just gives me that look that says, "Aw, shucks, you have to say that because you're my mom."

Children have no idea what a gift they are.

I was reminded of that fact as I watched the Children of the World International Choir perform at Cornerstone Baptist Church in Brandon a couple of weeks ago. Their beautiful voices and smiling faces epitomized the faith and hope of the holiday season despite the fact that many of them had faced untold tragedy in their young lives.

But you don't have to go to Africa and India to see children suffering. I was fortunate to tag along while a group of Hillsborough County sheriff's deputies played Santa for Hillsborough County's foster children. With funding donated by various companies, the deputies had a great time exploring the toy aisles at Wal-Mart in Seffner, trying out Fisher Price's latest offerings for children they will never meet. It was enough for the deputies to know those kids will have gifts to open on Christmas morning.

Every family has its ups and downs, and, frankly, this has been one of those down years in our family.

At the time we should have been celebrating my son's 12th birthday in August, his grandpa, my husband's dad, went into Brandon Regional Hospital for gall bladder surgery. However, doctors discovered he had a serious heart problem and his routine surgery became a three-week hospital stay followed by the difficult realization that he could no longer live on his own, that he would have to stay with us.

On the same day grandpa was having surgery, we received a call from a hospital in Burbank, Calif. My sister-in-law, Mara, a model and actress who never married, hadn't been feeling well. The doctors had diagnosed her problem as irritable bowel syndrome. Now the doctor on the other end of the phone was telling my husband that she had Stage IV non-Hodgkin's lymphoma with every organ involved. The best thing for Mara, said the doctor, is for us to come get her so she can die surrounded by her family.

My husband flew to California while I prepared a room in our home.

Ian's a pretty astute kid who's been through a lot in 12 years. He grieved with three classmates when they lost their parents to cancer and bravely faced his own father's battle with the disease. I could tell he was made of stronger stuff than I was when our Yorkshire terrier died from eating contaminated dog food in April and he insisted on carrying her body into the vet's office and choosing the urn for her remains.

I considered sheltering him from Mara's fate with euphemisms and flat-out denials. Mara took the decision out of my hands.

"You understand that I'm going up to heaven to be an angel with God, don't you, Ian?" she asked.

In fact, she is teaching all of us to appreciate each moment of our lives. She's literally showing us how to stop and smell the roses. My house is always filled with flowers she picks from my yard and arranges in cups that she decoupages using favorite pictures she cuts out of magazines.

She spends hours watching the birds come to the feeders she fills with seeds religiously each day, and she's especially fond of the manatee viewing center in Apollo Beach because she doesn't have to walk far to get there and can stay just a few minutes. That's about as long as she can manage before she gets too weak and tired.

She and my father-in-law, Bill, have lunch at Panera Bread in Valrico nearly every day. They split a sandwich and then try the samples. Mara likes to go there to talk to people, make them smile. Simple pleasures, simple moments.

It was just before Thanksgiving when I received word that my father in St. Louis, who was waging his own battle against cancer, wasn't faring well. Doctors found a tumor in his brain and were debating whether to operate. My dad took the decision out of their hands. No more radiation. No more chemo. No more surgery. No more feeding tubes. "Don't be sad. No life for me," was how he put it. They placed him in a hospice unit the Friday after Thanksgiving and I flew home to say goodbye. He died that Sunday.

We debated having Ian fly to St. Louis for the funeral. However, in the end, we all agreed that, with my psychologist husband working most evenings as well as caring for his dad and sister, and me helping my mom make funeral arrangements in St. Louis, it would be best to let my friend Mary Owens watch Ian after school until I returned home.

As always, Ian went along with the plan without a complaint. He wanted to do what was easiest for us during this difficult time.

So, when the following Thursday rolled around, the day I buried my father, the day my husband has back-to-back group therapy sessions with patients until 9 p.m., Ian never said a word about singing a solo in the Advent program at church.

He simply let himself into the house with his own key and changed his clothes while Mary waited in the car. From what my friend, Elaine Speer, tells me, he apparently chose an oversized button-down shirt, possibly one of his father's cast-offs, that he didn't bother tucking into his pants. He did, however, put on a tie, which he doesn't know how to tie so it was hardly up to Windsor standards.

His thick, nearly black hair was way too long and unmanageable so he used some gel to keep it out of his face. And, as always, his glasses were askew and slightly dirty.

Parents attending the Advent program who didn't know this little boy's circumstances must have been thinking, "What kind of parents would send their child to perform in a Christmas program looking like that?"

Elaine said he was just about the cutest thing she'd ever seen. My friends tell me he sang like an angel.
Despite the chaos going on around him, this child had the strength, presence of mind and commitment to carry on, knowing full well that his parents would never witness his moment in the spotlight.

My husband and I agreed that, as parents, this was one of the proudest moments of our lives, and we weren't even there to witness it. How can you top that gift?

D'Ann Lawrence White is a columnist for The Tampa Tribune.

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