The Christmas curse

You would think that after three Christmases of Ben getting sick for the big day, I would have just expected it this year. Further, you might argue that when in the middle of church on Christmas Eve Ben decided that he needed to lie down on the pew and then, looking ashen, left with his Grandpa Ceman to get a drink of water, I really should have known something bad was about to happen. But no, I chose to be an optimist. Or willfully ignorant, one or the other. "Wait!" I should have screamed. "Skip the bubbler! Get him to a bathroom, quick!" But no, I just sat there. And needless to say, Ben puked in the hallway. At church. On Christmas Eve.


It hardly seemed real, the possibility that Ben could get sick yet again. When Ben, and then the rest of us, got H1N1 in the fall, I told myself, "OK, at least we're getting this over with now, so maybe we won't get sick at Christmas again." How naive. Awful as this bit of bad luck was, the illness passed quickly, and Ben was feeling quite a bit better by Christmas night. Things were looking good. No one else had fallen ill. Again, naive. Paul got sick two nights later, appearing in our room, not comprehending the situation, asking why Ben had thrown up in his bed. The next day, we had to make a call about bringing him to Mark's parents' for the Thiel family gathering the following day. We ended up deciding to bring him for a couple hours, which would prove to be a terrible decision. Nearly everyone there fell ill within a few days.


Soon it was time to make another decision. We were to leave for a three-day trip to Chicago. Mark, Gus and I had yet to get sick. We were feeling fine, and Paul was on the mend. Besides, we had an anniversary dinner planned for my parents' 40th, and we were loathe to cancel. Again, bad decision. Gus got sick our first evening there. The poor boy didn't know what was happening to him. He was terrified and scarcely slept that night. Worse, Mark soon got sick, and hours later it caught up to me. That night, I can say, was the most hellish of my life. Running through the possible worst-case scenarios in our minds, this one, somehow, had escaped us.

Yes, this Christmas was not the kind they sing about in idyllic carols. In fact, truth be told, it was heavy on stress and anxiety and a little light on merriment, at least for me. And yet, looking back, I feel lucky. When we needed help, our families were there to help us, gladly. The day Mark and I were recovering in Chicago, my dad held Gus all day while he and Mark and I caught up on sleep. My mom and Aunt Sue took Ben and Paul to the Museum of Science and Industry and spoiled them rotten. And, yes, nearly everyone with us in Chicago got sick eventually, too. They helped us knowing they probably would. Now that's a gift.