Kaleidoscope

I have always believed that holidays have colors. Thanksgiving, which is rapidly approaching, is a bright yellow, vibrant orange, deep green, rich brown, and sometimes a muted gold – the colors of vegetables spilling out of a cornucopia, also known as a “horn of plenty.” The colors are many and varied, but they are all in the autumnal family. The colors are reflected in my Thanksgiving decorations. These are the things I pull out every year in late October/early November – my yellow patterned tablecloth with turkeys on it, a welcome mat with fall leaves and pumpkins, and my seasonal outdoor display of dried corn, bales of straw, pumpkins, gourds, and mums, all purchased at my local farmer’s market and brought home in the back of a pickup truck.

I always spend Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, a house that is part of me, ingrained into every fiber of my being, a place I first moved into when I was about seven years old. The yellows and oranges of Thanksgiving are first reflected there in the appetizer of crackers and cheese. We live in Wisconsin, and my mom grew up on a dairy farm. It is a nod to our heritage. We are cheeseheads. We always have good cheese – cheddar, Swiss, gouda, Pepper Jack – all the hues represented. The yellow is then continued in the sunshine colored handle of the electric knife used to carve the turkey. 

Dad always does the carving of the turkey, baked and basted to glistening golden perfection, while my mom does almost everything else needed for a Thanksgiving meal. She works on all the other dishes, full of Thanksgiving color – the stuffing (my favorite), the mashed potatoes with a thick brown gravy, corn, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, the dinner rolls, and of course, the cranberries – rounding out the color palette with their deep, rich color. Also in the red family is the non alcoholic punch we have before dinner served from a fancy, cut glass bowl– complete with a turkey ice mold. The red palette is later repeated in the burgundy wine which my dad, sitting at the head of the table, ceremoniously opens and pours. Needing to contribute something to the meal, I bring a freshly baked, traditional pumpkin pie, a brownish red that is later topped with a squirt of bright white, whipped cream. 

The men in my family love watching football, and Thanksgiving is prime football watching time. At the end of the Thanksgiving meal, when we are stuffed with turkey and feeling quite sleepy, we sit around and watch whatever game is on the television. That is, when we aren’t cleaning up the kitchen with its multitude of dishes. Being cheeseheads from Wisconsin, we are ardent Green Bay Packer fans and delight in cheering for the green and gold – more autumn colors. 

For years, my Thanksgiving colors were unchanging. That is, until last year when my dad died. He passed away on Thanksgiving morning, at around 3 a.m. It goes without saying that we didn’t celebrate the holiday. It was blue. No other color. No one in my family was feeling very thankful, immediately following his passing. The tiny colored pieces in my kaleidoscope had permanently shifted, forming a new color pattern and picture in a dark, mysterious blue, like the depths of a deep ocean – a fathomless ocean. One that you can’t see the bottom of because it’s only filled with pain. An ocean that you can rapidly drown in.

Nothing quite prepares you for the loss of a parent. I find it hard to relive those last days spent with my dad in the hospital. Sitting next to his bedside, holding his hand, gazing into his light blue eyes, eyes that were still youthful and bright, at least in color. What I wouldn’t give to see those eyes again. To continue holding his hand and reading to him from the newspaper. To make meaningless, one sided conversation and pretend that everything was alright, knowing deep down that it was the most cruel lie of all.

At the end, however, the handwriting was on the wall. It was his time. As a family, we had to make that difficult, life and death decision. Only the ventilator and a feeding tube were keeping him alive. A living will was in place. He didn’t want his life extended by artificial means. One night in the hospital, while he was sleeping, he pulled out the ventilator himself. He was trying to tell us something. He wanted to go home.

The nursing staff, upon our instructions, reattached the tubes, though. We couldn’t yet bear to let him go. Due to his stroke, he couldn’t swallow. He kept getting pneumonia, his lungs congested with fluid. Without the ventilator, he simply couldn’t breathe. And without being able to swallow, he couldn’t eat. It was no way to live. We were forced to face the painful truth. He didn’t want to live that way. We knew this deep in our hearts, although no one wanted to admit it.

We prayed and finally made the difficult decision to let him go. We surrounded him with all our love. We were with him in a private, secluded hospice room when he breathed his last. It was peaceful at the end. His breaths just kept getting further and further apart, until he at last breathed no more. He wasn’t struggling or laboring to breathe. At the end, he simply stopped. It was time to say goodbye. 

And now, here I am, exactly one year later, ready to face the Thanksgiving holiday again, unsure of what color it will be. For my mom’s sake, I strive to fill it with normal Thanksgiving colors. We plan to have the traditional Thanksgiving meal at her house, like usual. This year, however, we aren’t going to make the meal ourselves. We are going to purchase it from a store or caterer. We haven’t picked one out yet. I still plan on making my pumpkin pie. It will be a Thanksgiving altered, but still celebrated. We will try to remain thankful for all of the years we had with my dad. To be thankful for all of the years a beloved husband and father was in our lives. At the same time, of course, we still grieve for him. The golden colors mix in with the blue. I am not sure exactly what the color pattern will be. At any rate, I plan on wearing my dad’s old Packers sweatshirt – green and gold, of course. I think he will be up in heaven watching over us, while at the same time cheering his beloved Packers on, saying “Go, Pack, go!” 

After the Thanksgiving meal, we also plan to put up the Christmas tree, a shifting of the seasons – fall’s golden, earthy colors turning red, green, and white. Like Thanksgiving, Christmas will also be reduced. The colors dimmed a little, mixed in with the blue, but still celebrated. My mom doesn’t want to put up her normal large tree with its multitude of sparkly, festive ornaments. Instead, she requested a small, tabletop, pre lit tree.

 I found one at Target and brought it to her house in a brown cardboard box. I am not sure what it will look like sitting on top of her coffee table, nor how many ornaments it will hold. Nor do I know how I will feel when I see the empty spot in front of the large living room window where the grand, lavishly decorated Christmas tree has always stood. The same way I will feel when I spot the empty seat at the head of the dinner table, I imagine.

It’s going to be difficult to celebrate the holidays without my dad there. I know I need to push my grief to the side, however, and try to be strong for my mom and others in my family. We will try to make the best of the situation. We will keep twisting the kaleidoscope, so the colored pieces fall and rearrange themselves in a new pattern, the blue gradually mixing in with the other colors. We will remember all of the good times we spent as a family, both during the holidays and everyday. Hopefully, I will not cry too much. Tears have no color.