Tears of Joy at Christmas

Every year since 2004, I cry for Christmas. They are not tears of sadness but tears of Joy that roll down my cheeks. And, I wouldn’t have it any other way. . .

On December 10, 2004, I received a message on my answering machine that my father was going to get a new heart. A flood of emotions overwhelmed me: sadness for the person who died in order to make this heart available, gratitude to the family who in their grief gave such an amazing gift to a complete stranger, fear that my father would have to go through such a long and scary surgery. Upon hearing the message, I immediately called my father who lived four states away. I could hear in his voice the nervousness and excitement about the journey he was about to embark on.

I didn’t realize until after I hung up the phone that I forgot to tell him I love him. I immediately redialed the phone but, it was too late he already left for the hospital. I became distraught. What if I never get the chance to see him or talk to him again? How will he know I love him?

I sobbed and prayed to God. I began to ask God for all the things we do when a loved one is about to have surgery. Then I realized all I could really pray for was God’s help in accepting whatever was His will. At that moment, I felt a warm embrace and a peaceful calm came over me. I knew everything was going to be alright.

My Dad made it through the surgery. He had a little trouble so they kept his breathing tube in. We waited seven days before heading east on our regularly scheduled Christmas visit in hopes that he would recuperate and be able to come home during our visit.

When I got there, he was still struggling and on the breathing tube. Each visit was difficult starting with the first. He had so many IV bags and tubes, the sight of which terrified me. My father looked so fragile and vulnerable that it brought tears to my eyes. I was speechless but, did my best to try to cheer him up. He was also overwhelmed with emotion and began to cry. The nurses chased me out of the room and they wouldn’t let me see him again that day.

Since visiting my father in the hospital from my parent’s home entailed a two hour drive and $100 dollars in toll and parking fees, I waited two days before going to see him again hoping he would be stronger. When I arrived, I notified the nurses and asked if I could come in to see him. They promptly drugged him up to keep his emotions under control. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open for the two minutes I was allowed to visit. I left sad, scared, and hopeless.

My third visit was Christmas Eve. It was going to be the last time I could see him before heading home to have my gallbladder removed on December 26, 2004. Christmas was always Dad’s favorite holiday. He could never wait to open gifts but, it wasn’t that he wanted to open his own gifts. He couldn’t wait to see your face when you opened the gifts he bought you. He got so much joy out of the giving part of Christmas that I still smile thinking about how excited he would get. So, drugged or not, there was no way that I was going to let him spend Christmas alone!

When I went in for my visit, Dad was shaved and alert. He still had the tube in and couldn’t talk but, it was definitely a good day. I told him I had to go home to have my gallbladder out but, would come back to visit when he got out. He laughed when I told him my husband and I painted his bathroom Pepto Bismol Pink. And then, my father gave me the last gift I would ever get from him. He mouthed the words “I love you.” I told him I loved him as the nurse came in to tell me it was time for Dad to rest. I left with confidence and hope that he was getting stronger and would be fine.

I never saw my Dad again. He died December 30, 2004. I’ll always cherish that last Christmas gift I received from my father and, the gift I received from my heavenly Father. I believe that the heart transplant kept my Dad alive long enough for me to see him that Christmas. It was God’s will that I get the chance to tell my father what I forgot to say the night he got the call for his heart transplant: “I love you, Daddy.”

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