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"Could Joey spend Christmas with you? And stay overnight?"
My friend knows that I prefer when things stay the same: furniture, schedules, holidays. When we get new couches, I don't sit on them for a week. They're just too new. Any change to plans leaves my heart pounding, and my Christmas traditions are unalterable. I come from a long line of worriers, and mothers who feel that Christmas rituals must be adhered to at all costs.
So it's not surprising that there was some hesitation in my friend's voice when she asked if her son could spend Christmas Day with us.
Joey's situation was complicated. A year-and-a-half earlier, when he was 11, he had been diagnosed with cancer in his spine. Since then he had endured many rounds of chemotherapy, and the cancer was supposed to be under control. But it wasn't.
That time had been incredibly hard for him and his family – interrupted schooling, trips back and forth from Windsor to Toronto, braces on his back, searches for new treatments and, eventually, a relocation to Toronto so that Joey could get the medical care he needed.
My mind raced. Would it seem strange to Joey, who was Jewish, to spend Christmas day with us? Would he feel left out? Would he miss his family? Would he be ill?
The request came out of a difficult dilemma. Joey's father had a new job in the Maritimes, and he had to take care of matters there. His mother and siblings had booked a trip to Florida, but Joey was not well enough to travel. It would be easiest if he stayed in Windsor with various friends until his family could meet him again in Toronto.
After a couple of days of pondering and worrying, I calmed down and e-mailed my friend. Of course Joey could stay. My older son, who had been Joey's schoolmate, would be delighted. I would pick up Joey from his other host at 1 p.m. on Christmas day (I'd calculated that by that time the intimate part of Christmas would be over – the Dutch Christmas breakfast eaten, the presents all unwrapped).
On Christmas afternoon, the snow was piled so high that when my son and I arrived to fetch Joey, the drifts made it hard to park the car. The steps to the house were icy. Joey emerged cheerfully, knapsack on his back, and in his hands a bag of Christmas presents and his signature long shoe horn, which he needed because bending forward hurt his back. He made his way gingerly down the steps.
It was obvious in one glance that he was in a lot of pain, and I was filled with concern. But listening to him chatting in the backseat with my son, I started to relax.
Joey had always been a conversationalist. He didn’t hold back. (Having cancer just wasn’t fair, he had told me once. I agreed.) His forceful personality sometimes emerged in a strong will and mischief when he was with his own parents.
When we arrived back at our house, Joey announced his arrival by presenting huge sticks of Toblerone chocolate to my sons – “for Christmas!” he said.
He sat down on the couch and immediately had my children, one on either side, listening to him avidly. He pulled out his portable Nintendo and shared it with them, keeping them chatting and surprisingly uncompetitive.
I raised my eyebrows at my husband as we were preparing Christmas dinner. It was as if someone had sprinkled good cheer all around.
Our Christmas dinner was the same as it had ever been: roast lamb, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans with sugared pecans. Though it’s a rather bland feast, we were accustomed to our children rejecting large parts of it. Not Joey. He ate with gusto. He proclaimed everything delicious. He had seconds. He put down his fork and said, “This is the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had!” My heart swelled. I couldn’t wait to serve him pumpkin pie.
Later in the evening, after more games and movies, Joey’s parents called. Two phone calls, one from Nova Scotia, the other from Florida. The phone was far enough away from Joey’s ear that I could catch snippets of the conversations. His parents both asked him about his day, and how he was feeling. They both told him how much they loved him, and he responded that he loved them, too.
As he made his way to the trundle bed to sleep, I noticed again the grimace on his face with each step he took.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you need to take your pain medication?”
“I’m fine,” he insisted.
The magic lasted as we drove Joey back to his other Windsor host the next day. It lasted after he had left. Agreeableness seemed to rule in our usually squabbling household.
We didn’t know that that 2012 Christmas dinner was the last meal Joey would eat at our house.
We didn’t know that he would die the following spring, a month before his planned bar mitzvah.
But there were some things I did know: Courage can be 13 years old; love can travel long distances. Invite someone for Christmas dinner. Say yes.
Danielle Price lives in Windsor, Ont.