Member-only story
When Cancer Comes Home for Christmas
A version of this story was originally published in Huffpost.
I’ve been fascinated with the largeness of Christmas since I was a child — how it fills rooms, covers houses, takes over entire streets. I used to be an observer, not a participator, in what is arguably the most voyeuristic of holidays.
My family is Jewish and though we didn’t actively practice our religion, we also didn’t celebrate Christmas. Our house remained dark each December except for an electric menorah in the window, its blue lights the only sign that we celebrated anything at all.
I yearned for a tree throughout my childhood. I was enchanted by the concept Santa, and reindeer, and stockings filled with gifts. Imagine getting extra gifts stuffed into a big sock? The delight of opening each tiny present was, in my mind, unfairly denied to me.
When I met my husband, his family welcomed me into Christmas in a way I’d never experienced before. I had my own stocking that my sister-in-law decorated by hand. I still use it, 23 years later. I began wrapping gifts in red and green paper and shopping for stocking stuffers for the first time. At twenty-five, I was smitten with Christmas, though my husband had long ago grown bored with the annual traditions. That didn’t sway me. Christmas was finally mine.
