Christmas 2003

If you asked me what I received and what I gave for Christmas presents more than a year ago, I would have a hard time remembering. There might be a keepsake or something unique-the navy blue wool throw in the family room with “BYU” embroidered on it, for example. But to try to remember which shirt, which tie, even which grownup toy was a Christmas present and which was a simple purchase or gift on another occasion, and you are likely to get a lot of head scratching on my part. But if you look in our downstairs closet, there are two gifts from Christmas 2003 which I will always remember, as well as a third gift both given and received that same year you will not find in a closet, but which remains a memorable gift as well.
December 2003 was a time of transition for my family. A career of twenty-two years had come to a close in October; I was looking for work, but no prospects in sight. Immediate starvation was not a concern, we had some reserves, and while Christmas was not going to be extra generous, there was some money for a few things, especially for the kids. Our daughter had given us a teenager’s typewritten list, nearly a page, prioritized from “I will die if I don’t get this” to “If you have enough money, I want this too”. I honestly cannot remember a single item from this list, though I am certain a fair amount of loot was claimed.
Our son, Brian, gave us no list. Brian did not make lists, or ask for toys or clothes or video games. Brian marched to his own drummer, whose rhythm only he could hear. A couch pillow to sniff, a stick to tap his chin with, a burger to eat/demolish was all that Brian required in the way of worldly goods. Christmas presents for Brian were practical, as a purchase of a toy would be a waste of time and money. And so our two presents for Brian reflected his needs: A new backpack to take to his day program to be filled with lunch and a change of clothing in case he had an accident, and a new pair of hiking boots to replace the old pair which had been worn into oblivion-Brian would not wear low cut shoes, only boots, so we just changed his footwear out every couple of years for something close to identical.
My parents had invited us to spend Christmas week with them at their time share in Arizona. This would be the first Christmas week in over two decades spent away from the cacophony of retail sales. Christmas for me had meant long hours, chaotic scrambles, and one-day sales four days a week. I joked that I enjoyed the Christmas rush, but that I could only stand this much fun once a year.
Trying to find employment in the retail field in December is an exercise in futility. I was not worried that a week away from the job hunt would do any damage, so we accepted the invitation and drove off to a condo complex somewhere north of Phoenix. I could say that the entire week was a magical memory, but that would not be totally true. We enjoyed my parents company, Brian, my father, and I climbed a small cactus-studded mountain out back of town, and all of us but Julie, who was sick, drove to Mesa to see the Christmas lights on the grounds of the Mesa temple. We had a toothpick dinner Christmas Eve, (an old John family tradition), opened presents Christmas morning, and spent time visiting with each other. But both Julie and I spent much of the week sick, and Brian, well, Brian was just being Brian, but with six of us in a small condo, his behaviors and “tricks” conspired to get on everyone’s nerves. When my mother would shoo him out of the kitchen, he would merely loop around to the other entrance and make a run at whatever food he was after from the rear. I did my best to keep him out of trouble, but not feeling good myself, this meant a lot of time spent up in his room watching TV with a dresser across the door to prevent an escape.
The day after Christmas, we headed home. It had been an unusual and enjoyable Christmas, though nothing too spectacular. Chantal enjoyed reading her new books- I don’t remember which ones, but we always got her books- Julie slept most of the way home, and Brian made noises and looked out the window at the passing desert, his new backpack and boots tucked away in the luggage.
In preparation for his going back to his day program the next Monday, Julie laid out some new clothes for him the night before and tucked socks into his new boots. She transferred his spare clothes from his old tattered pack to his new one and wrote his name on it in marker so it would not get lost. His lunch was in the fridge, all ready to be slipped into the pack on the way out the door.
But Brian did not make it to school that day. He awoke, as usual, in the pre-dawn hours, tried to rustle some food, and drank several glasses of water, but then laid down on the couch of his own accord about 6:30. Faced with an unexpected bonus of a little sleep, I slipped off to my own room for an hour.
At 7:30 I awoke. Brian’s bus would be here about 8:00, and he still needed some breakfast and to get dressed. I found him on the floor, spread-eagled next to the Christmas tree, and immediately realized that he had had a seizure.
That was not a big problem; he had seizures from time to time, slept them off, and seemed none the worse for wear. He did seem rather unresponsive as I shepherded him into his bed, but I knew the drill. He would sleep like a log for a few hours, then awake and be his usual self.
When the bus driver came by, we told him Brian would not be going today, but would need picked up tomorrow. The new clothes, boots and backpack were tucked away, their inaugural use delayed for 24 hours.
A few hours later, while checking on Brian, I saw him exhale and then-nothing. 911 was called, Paramedics arrived, a mad dash to the hospital was followed by 30 agonizing, prayerful minutes while they worked on our son in the ER, and then he was gone. We were allowed a few minutes with him, but I was soon called away to answer a few questions, and when I returned, he was cold and I could sense that all that was left was his mortal body. The son who both drove me nuts with his behaviors and melted my heart with his affection and innocence was no longer on this earth.
Though numb, we made some preliminary arrangements, and then picked up Chantal from her volunteer position at the library. She had no idea of the events of the past few hours, so the shock was as bad for her as it had been for us.
When we telephoned my parents a short time later, I relayed the news to my mother. She cried out in dismay, then through her tears thanked me for the gift having Brian spend what turned out to be nearly his last days with her and my father. It was a gift I had not intended to give, but one that both my parents and I will remember long after whatever purchased gifts were exchanged are consumed, disposed of, and forgotten.
We eventually gave away most of Brian’s worldly possessions. His clothes, for the most part, went to the local thrift shop. He didn’t have toys; I gave most of his camping gear to the local scout troop after we moved to Utah, where I have had the pleasure of seeing young men toting his pack and climbing into his sleeping bag. They have no sense of the places that gear has gone or the adventures it has seen, but I do. However, a few of his things just hurt to much to give away- a favorite jacket, his Sunday clothes, and still sitting on the top shelf of the downstairs closet, a brand new blue daypack with “Brian John” and our California phone number neatly written on the back, right next to a pair of unused LL Bean Light Hikers, boys size 6, dark brown, waiting for feet that will never fill them, Christmas gifts that I will remember giving when the trinkets and dress shirts and sundry other gifts are worn out and faded from memory, along with the gift of one last visit with loved ones who were as unaware at the time of the receipt of this gift as I was of it’s giving.