The Best Thanksgiving Ever

My best Thanksgiving ever was spent in the hospital watching my dad struggle to live.

Dad had emphysema and congestive heart failure, so frequent hospital visits were a part of my life.

On Thanksgiving Day 2012, the nursing home staff called early that morning to let me know Dad was going to the hospital again. I was already half awake getting ready to fix the grand turkey for its date with a smitten oven. Before I left, I managed to get the bird in and tell my husband I was leaving. My plan was to spend a couple of hours at the hospital and drive back to finish the bird and the rest of the meal preparation. We lived nearby, so that was feasible.

This time, Dad had shortness of breath. When I saw him in one of the trauma rooms, he was hooked to an oxygen machine and already apologizing for his condition. He had been doing that a lot lately in spite of me telling him he wasn’t at fault. I smiled as I said that again, trying to ignore the fact his oxygen level was quite low and the machine was operating at nearly the highest level. It didn’t take long for the doctors to decide he needed to be admitted, but it took forever to find an available room. There goes the quick trip back to the house, I thought. I didn’t want to leave Dad until he was completely settled and comfortable.

Once he was transferred to his room, I vacillated. Do I stay? Do I go? If I stayed, I would have to leave the rest of the meal prep to my 13-year-old budding chef and her trusty assistant, my husband, who I strongly suspected would not really assist, but delegate that task to another less-than-enthusiastic kid. I envisioned a burnt bird, lumpy mashed potatoes, and hard rolls. That would not do.

Then, I looked at Dad. All morning, he had been urging me to go home and spend Thanksgiving with my family. He put on a brave face, as dads do, but I saw the lonely and forlorn look in his eyes, the worry about not just that day, but however many days to come. I said to him that I was already spending Thanksgiving with family – him.

So, in spite of his protests, which got feebler as the day wore on, and he realized that his daughter really is as stubborn as he is, we spent the rest of the day enjoying each other, watching the Community Bulletin Board channel with 50s and 60s music playing softly in the background. We laughed at silly game shows. We talked. He would occasionally close his eyes and move his head to the beat as the music took him back to younger, healthier days.

For those few precious moments, we didn’t think about the oxygen machine, his lack of mobility, and the bland hospital food that tried to pass as a Thanksgiving meal. I also cared not to think of the future, which would inevitably bring more hospitalizations and Dad’s death a few weeks later. We enjoyed each other, and I felt grateful Dad was still alive. That was my greatest reason for being thankful.

Later, I wondered if Our Blessed Mother had such moments with her son before the ministry, before Calvary. Did she cherish them as they occurred, without giving a thought about what lay ahead? Did she take in every detail of her beautiful son’s face, noting and impressing on her mind every soft line and curve as I noted every wrinkle and freckle on Dad’s face? Did she have a memory-filled movie playing in her head as I did in mine?

I know she had some sense of foreboding – “and you yourself a sword will pierce” (Luke 2:35) – but I also like to think that she didn’t dwell on that too much as Jesus grew up. Like I tried not to dwell on what lay ahead for Dad. I think she enjoyed every single moment with her son. I think she gave thanks for the gift of His life, knowing full well that God would always be with her and bring about every good thing.

Late that night, I ate my dinner beautifully prepared by my daughter and husband thinking about the feast I had enjoyed earlier in the day – a feast of gratitude for a few precious hours spent with Dad cherishing every moment.