The term “side splitting humor” has never held more relevance than now, and as I stare at my Christmas tree for the first time since I bought it two weeks ago, it never dawned on me that it was lopsided. We brought it home, bound in it’s twine, from Save-on-foods and the minute we mounted it and cut the twine, the tree shed a bazillion little pine needles. Since then it has delivered onto the floor enough roughage to fill 10 dust pans and then some.

It’s Christmas day and, to be honest, I couldn’t give two rats about that tree; for all I care, I’d take it down today if it weren’t for the fact that doctors orders were to convalesce at home and nothing more. Typically a day like this is a dream day, but I can’t sit here and stare at the carnage that has become my house over the last couple of days, and do nothing. It appears somewhere between 5 pm Christmas eve and 12:30 pm today, Christmas day, I lost control of my house and, of Christmas.

It started innocently, as these things usually do, with a call to arms by none other then myself, as a way to draw the boys out of their screen absorbed holiday coma’s and out into the big bad world, where fun and danger occur. Little did I know the danger was reserved for me; while the boys got to harness the fun. We scavenged whatever winter clothing we could find: mismatched wool gloves, poly-cotton pullovers and anything we could find to put on our feet that wouldn’t absorb too much water. The only one who was dressed weather appropriate was Rowan and that’s because, he has not grown out his gear over the past few years. The other two looked like they were dressed for a very strange spring day.

We scraped the ice and snow off of our black plastic 5 foot sled, which was given to me as a gift the year we moved up to Penticton, 2006, and then headed off on our ill-fated, pre Christmas dinner adventure: Wiltse? nah.. too many little kids. Carmi? Too far. Uplands it is then. Uplands elementary school has a good hill, with a relatively steep drop which tapers toward a fence at the bottom, but, there are also patches of grass sticking out of the snow to slow you down if you find you’re picking up too much speed. So off we went like dreamy eyed little kids wanting to test their limits and bring home a tall tale for the dinner table. As soon as we got out of the car, the wool mitts did what they were supposed to do; absolutely nothing, so our hands were ice blocks right out of the gate. We needed a few runs to get the blood pumping, but instead of warming up with a few lighter runs, we dove right in and went for it on our first, which turned out to be not only Epic, but also the one that would end my night prematurely.

The sled perched at the crest of the hill, first it was Rowan (the navigator), then Marshall, then me, then Dylan ( the instigator) would push off and then leap in as the sled would tip into the slope, pick up speed and begin it’s decent into hell. Shouts of glory emitted as we approached the 1/3 point and then, at the crescendo of our enthusiasm, the sled started to tilt left causing the inevitable carnage of flailing arms, pointy elbows and kicking feet to ensue. After which, to the shock and awe of horrified onlookers and and fully amused children, we went down in a blazing heap of glory, but, not before I felt the painful impact of a knee penetrate the small of my back. I felt it press deep into the tissue just near the lower two ribs and I knew instantly, I was done.

Like four mindless minions, we did it again. This time, I remember smacking my head into someone’s shin as we wiped out again, but, the impact was no where near as alarming as the pain that was welling up in my back. I felt I had damaged something but I wasn’t quite sure what. I stayed put at the top of the hill while the three boys continued on a few more runs, and then we left as dark began to fall, around 4 0’clock.

At around 4:30, as I was stirring the sauce on the stove and getting ready to put the ribs, wings and chorizo into the oven, the pain in my lower right back began to radiate around my waist and then up my side to my shoulder, and by 5 pm, as I was sharing a virtual toast with a friend of mine, things went from bad to worse. I felt muscle spasms in the right side of my abdomen and then by supper time, just as had laid out our beautiful Christmas dinner and called troops to the table, I was having difficulties breathing. I could inhale half capacity but then excruciating pain would cause me to exhale immediately. What have I done, I thought to myself. And is this the end of Christmas dinner for me?

I bravely sat down and nibbled on a little bruschetta, but it was useless, so, after a futile attempt at trying to walk off the pain, I knew I was headed for the hospital. At 6 pm, leaving behind a table full of goodies and two boys, I gave Marshall the nudge to hold up the fort, while Dylan drove me over to the Emergency ward at Penticton Regional Hospital, and that is where I stayed for the evening, filtering through a million questions by multiple registrars, doctors and nurses, many pertaining to COVID; a few relating to my predicament. It was a terrible Christmas eve; knowing my boys were at home by themselves, while I went from blood test, to needle, to IV, to painkillers, then a triage of x-rays, Ultra sounds and CT scans, trying to figure out if I’d fractured or broken a rib. The CT scan was the worst. I couldn’t lay down on my back, without an unbearable, gasping pain shooting through my rib cage, but the scan required I do just that. I was in the tunnel and the pain was so bad, I tried to wiggle my way out which caused the technicians to have to repeat the procedure a second time. I prayed I wouldn’t have to do it a third.

In between procedures, I had to wait, standing up in the waiting room, because I couldn’t sit down, and the only other person there was a poor woman, bent over in pain holding an IV pole. She was passing a kidney stone and for those who have never experienced this process, be very grateful. It is one of the most painful experiences imaginable. I tried, at times, to soothe her while she went through intervals of pain, but, I was not much help; as I paced the floor clutching at my side, trying to breath while holding the back opening of my smock closed, so nobody had to deal with my exposed backside.

Finally at around 9:30, the prognosis. The doctor; the same one who gave me a ten minute seminar on vaccines earlier, told me that I’d had some internal bleeding which they picked up on the CT scan and that I would have to spend the night in the hospital. I was beside myself! But, what about Christmas? Never mind my own, but what about three kids at home who are expecting stockings, and presents under the tree? For the first time ever, I was fully prepared, wrapped and ready to go, and now my Christmas was thwarted, because of some lousy fall out off of a sled? Where are the kind gods of beautiful holiday endings, I thought, the ones you see in the movies, where light snow sprinkles from the night sky, slay bells are heard and Tom Hanks narrates the homecoming and reuniting of the family, just in time for Christmas?

Suddenly, I began to see visions of three kids with tears in their eyes come Christmas morning, because Dad was not there to share in their joy, opening gifts and then I began to see my bottle of Bulliet Bourbon; my favorite Christmas eve nightcap, begin to fade away, and that is when I drew the line.

Okay, I told the doctor, but I have to go home first so I can organize the kids, pick up a few things, (and sneak in as many bourbon shots as possible), before returning to the dismal, sterile, colourlessness of the hospital. I didn’t tell the doc about the shots, but, I did appeal to his seemingly absent sense of sentimentality. And, wish granted, Dylan picked me up and I returned to a house where the kids weren’t watching a Christmas Carol and eating decorated cookies, but, instead, they had on the Walking Dead and there were empty cans of Canada Dry scattered on the floor and ketchup chips crushed into the carpet!

I immediately took control, reached for the bourbon, poured myself a three finger and began to lay out the game plan. Dylan would be Santa (dad) this year so I walked him through the sequence: Put the stockings out and find a corner for each pile of presents. Get the younger boys into bed at a reasonable hour ( not 1 am), watch a Christmas movie, for crying out loud and Rowan still likes to put out the Almond milk and cookies. We’ve tried to tell him, and I think he knows, but Rowan is a creature of habit. He likes things just the way they usually are, and given the fact that, nothing is that way anymore, we let him continue with the milk and cookies ritual. We then exchanged a few family gifts and by 10:30, slightly drunk, and with a lump in my throat and a tear welling up in my eye, I give Dylan the nod, say my goodnight, and then all I can see is the confused expression on Rowan’s face as I leave the house and head for the hospital. Obviously he was wondering where I was off to so late on Christmas eve, when I should be there with them, tucking them all in and reading a Night Before Christmas. It was a heartbreaking night for me.

That night was the longest night of my life. I had to sit up in the hospital bed, because I still couldn’t lie down; my side and back ached, it was hard to breath and I couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit in. The IV pole was a pain in the ass and every time I had to go to the bathroom I had to unplug it. All I could think about were the kids and what their Christmas morning would be like without Dad being the first up; not being able to watch the expressions on their faces as they opened each present, one by one and, as they usually do, thanking me for each and every one. Hundreds of dollars worth of gifts and wrapping, stocking stuffers, braving malls and Main street shops, thinking always about the perfect gift and I couldn’t be there to witness any of it. I was sad for that, but, I also had to keep myself in check and be thankful that I had a family that could seemingly take care of things themselves. Seemingly.

Finally, after no more then a few winks of sleep the whole night, the morning came. I sent off a few texts, phoned my mother in Barrie and then sat and waited for further instructions. I had a breakfast of, I don’t know what it was, some kind of omelet which didn’t actually taste like it had any egg in it, and then waited some more until finally I was wheeled down for another set of x-rays, then back up to my room. The pain had begun to subside in my back and waist and I could almost take deep breaths again, which told me that things might be turning around here. The doctor came up around 11:30 and gave me the all clear to check out; the blood levels were still apparent from internal bleeding, but would probably flush within a matter of days. I could go home. No fracture, most likely a soft tissue tear on impact, which bled out into the lung cavity area, but, nothing that would require any further close monitoring. Thank God! Christmas at last.

As I walked into my home, now void of any signs of life, as the boys had been whisked off to their mom’s, I was confronted with carnage on an epic scale. Although Dylan had told me that Christmas dinner was all cleaned up, it wasn’t really. The back room was covered in wrapping paper, half played-with gifts and new toys; there were cups and cans and potato chip bags everywhere. Food from the night before was left on the counter, it was a disaster. For a minute I caught myself getting a little angry, but then I saw something that profoundly touched me. In all the mess and the wreckage of the boys bedroom, beside Marshall and Rowan’s bunk bed, there lay Dylan’s mattress on the floor. I pieced it together then. Dylan had put the boys to bed, and perhaps the younger boys knowing all the pieces were not in place and that this Christmas eve was a little bit off without Dad around, he had dragged the mattress from the guest room at the front and placed it beside Rowan’s bed so that all the boys could sleep together on Christmas eve. And then on top of Dylan’s unmade mattress was a copy of “The Night Before Christmas”…..

I realized then, that perhaps, I didn’t miss Christmas. Perhaps Christmas this year threw us a few curveballs so we could see that Christmas was not just about repeating the same traditions over and over again, year after year. Sometimes you have to change things up a little bit; step back a little and let someone else take the reigns. Or sometimes, forces come into play that make those arrangements for you?

As I stare at my tree, nursing my back and side, taking deeper breath, a little less painful each time, I am thankful. I looked at the mess on the floor and began to see images of the boys opening their presents and they weren’t sad, They were just as happy as they always are and each time they unraveled another gift, they would look up across the room at the empty chair, and give a silent nod of appreciation.

Holiday tips to take home from a thwarted Christmas: Don’t buy pre-bound trees from the supermarket, always shoot for experiences, not things and never be the third man to enter a sled full of idiots.

Merry Christmas everyone!