A Sweet Christmas Memory..."Fruitcake" Style

As a bookseller, I see all sorts of memoirs sailing by. It's the hot thing to write if you are an old rock star ("see how wild I was! and how now I don't have many brain cells left!"), a political has-been ("I really DID have dinner with JFK in 1962..I'll tell you all about how I spilled gravy on his lap. He thought it was a great joke, really..."), or someone who CLAIMS they were married to Elvis at some point in time.

But probably my favorite are the memoirs of famous poets and novelists
--it really does seem that the main qualification to become a famous artist is to have a horrific upbringing with drug-addled parents, lecherous uncles, schizophrenic siblings and crazy family histories (growing up in an Irish slum seems to be the current fad).

I have decided there is no way I will ever be a famous author unless I can beef up my family tree with some REAL crazies. OK, I do have the odd alcoholic far-flung relative (I believe I have one who died drunk in a snow drift somewhere there a long time ago...). But for the most part I really can't say that I'm suffering from "dysfunctional family syndrome." I understand that should be considered a blessing, even if it limits my artistic 'voice.'

Here is the one traumatic Holiday family memory I can pinpoint in my life.

My husband and I  were a young family--oh, so young and so full of children--three kids under 6 by now. It was Christmas Eve in Minnesota and the snow was crunchy underfoot. My beloved extended family was together for Traditional Christmas Enchiladas (a Scandinavian interpretation). My mom's house, warm and cheerful, rang with the voices of children, siblings and in-laws. It was almost time for the much-anticipated gift opening (we are heretical and always open ours on Christmas Eve. Please don't judge)

My youngest child at the time had struggled for a few years with intestinal difficulties (it's called "gas" for want of a better word). During dinner, and before present opening, she began whining and crying about her stomach hurting.  I held her and told her it would get better. It didn't. She cried louder. I rocked her harder. Family members began bringing antacids and advice. She cried harder.

My mother told me I should call the doctor--"It could be  her appendix!" The big, bad Appendicitis Monster was always lurking at our family's door. My grandfather had died of it in his early 30's, my father had his removed, and I had a ruptured appendix at age 8. So naturally, it's the first thing that comes to our minds.

I really didn't want to call the doctor's office. "Mom, it's Christmas Eve. They'll tell me to keep an eye on her and call back in an hour. Then they'll have me come to the Emergency Room and sit for four hours while they dither around, and then send me home. You KNOW that's what happens. We need to wait a while."

The tension in the house continued to escalate...my daughter is crying, I'm getting upset, my mom is pacing and worried, my husband is trying to stay out of the way as the mom/daughter/granddaughter "chemistry" begins to take on disturbing forms..."OK, MOM! I know she's in terrible pain...I'll call the doctor!"

Which I did. And the nurse on the group health line said..."wait a while."
AAAAKK!

"I can't DO this anymore!!" I wail.
"My tummy HURTS!!" screams my daughter.
"You should call the doctor and DEMAND to see someone!!" insists my mother.

I burst into tears along with my suffering child; we sob and moan until my husband steps between my mother and I--

"Elaine...just SHUT UP!!!"

A stunned silence. For my easy-going mate, this is the equivalent of a profanity-laced tirade.

"Elaine, I'm sorry--but you've just got to leave Carla alone--we know it's hard, but we'll have to decide what to do on our own. Sanders family, we're loading up the car and going home. C'mon, boys."

The rest of the family quietly helped us load our belongings into the old station wagon; some leftovers from the delicious dinner that I mostly missed and the gifts I didn't get to see. Our poor weeping daughter was buckled into the car seat as the boys got in their boosters. We drove away in the dark cold night back to our little duplex; I was sniffling and grieving a lost holiday.

And of course,
miraculously,
my little girl stopped crying

As she relaxed into her seat and the "gastric distress" subsided, I heard another young voice pipe up from the back.

"Wow!" our younger son said with enthusiasm. "That was the BEST Christmas EVER!"

[This story obviously has passed into family legend and meme...anytime we have a prickly situation during the holiday season, someone is bound to repeat this optimistic phrase emphatically. We are not sure WHICH celebration the above-mentioned  son was attending...we think he was too busy with his presents to notice what was going on elsewhere in the house.]

So, everyone...have the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER, OK?
Just without the screaming part.