Happy Holiday Headaches

Tom wakes up with a headache. The stubborn alarm clock and the morning sun don’t help matters, either. Normally, this would make a random Tuesday in August a bad day. Yet malaise is compounded by the fact that this is Christmas Eve. The holiday ringer awaits—a big party with fake smiles, pretending to enjoy the company of others, trying not to drink too much, and coming up with superlatives about gifts that he doesn’t care for. 

And he hasn’t made one purchase towards his Christmas shopping yet. He does, however, have an engagement ring in his coat pocket. He has yet to find the right time, though. Christmas proposals are made for Hallmark and Hollywood, but he knows he won’t get a better shot than this holiday. New Year’s Eve, perhaps, but he usually drinks too much then, too.  

Tom sighs and trudges to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, and he is tempted to make the coffee “Irish.” He forgoes the whiskey, as he must drive himself to the deathtraps that folks call shopping centers. Normally he looks forward to seeing Ellen, his girlfriend of three years, but she gets in ‘Santa mode’ this time of year. The further he drifts from the Christmas spirit, the more insufferable she is in her attempts to bring him into the festive fold. Their favorite holiday movies sum it up: he is into Bad Santa, while Ellen is more of an Elf kind of gal.  

Tom works as a kitchen manager at The Up and Up, a local pizzeria in West Seattle. He is grateful that he has mostly day shifts, as that sort of schedule is rare in the hospitality business. He finds it hard to not dwell on the negative, however. He is overqualified and underpaid, barely making enough to pay his bills and have a little money left over for some semblance of a social life. Christmas shopping interferes with that.  

Every year, the list of people that he and Ellen are obligated to buy presents for grows longer. He finds it hard to get in the spirit of things when the last of his paycheck is going to her third cousin’s Secret Santa gift. He recalls the Robert Frost poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” which visits on a similar theme. He is not a wordsmith, however, and he puts up the best front he can and endures, taking solace in the anticipation of free wine that will be flowing at the White Elephant gift exchange later in the evening. 

“Later on, we need to stop by Bon Marche’s downtown location, as they don’t have the style of handbag that my great Aunt Lori likes,” Ellen says, via text.  

Tom takes a deep breath. He knows he is at risk of breaking the rules of engagement by speaking negatively, but he can’t help himself. “We are in the suburbs, rush hour is all day long this time of year, and we still have to wrap all of these presents. Any way we can check to see if Amazon can put a rush order in?”  

Ellen practices some restraint of her own, as she is wiser to Tom’s Scrooge-like behavior than she lets on. “Honey, I know it will be stressful, but just think—that will be it for all of our shopping!” 

“I guess,” he mutters. “We’re still decorating the tree tonight, right?”  

“Sure thing,” she says. He locks his phone screen, and heads over to her place. 

The tree decorating is the one thing that he actually does like about the yuletide season, oddly enough. He puts his YouTube account on the smart TV, and he and Ellen take turns playing their favorite tunes. The hot-buttered rums and the warm fire makes for an evening that they can both agree on. And the music doesn’t have to be of the Christmas variety either.  Sometimes it is a compromise, though. You never know when DMX’s “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” will pop up on either of their mixes. It is the one last bit of fun he has before they have to go spread Christmas cheer with her folks.  

They head out and brave the Yuletide tide of humanity. It goes as smooth as can be expected, but it still produces some stress. His headache won’t go away.  

Once they’re home, Ellen starts prepping food for her family’s get-together for the evening. Tom doesn’t have much family left, and those who are still alive and kicking don’t really embrace the holiday spirit. They are spread far and wide, with only a few remaining in his hometown of Memphis. So far, this Christmas is not that different than the past three, but he feels the need to take a moment before he gets the artificial tree from the attic. He would prefer a live tree, but that would make for one more stressful errand on an already hectic day. He makes himself a strong drink, cues up Aerosmith’s Rocks on Spotify, and gets lost in his thoughts. How did he stray so far from enjoying the holiday? The album that he is playing, while not a Christmas album proper, reminds him of Christmases past, as he discovered it during the holidays.  

Still, nothing. Even a holiday moment on his own terms doesn’t move the Christmas meter. Tom pours another drink, forgetting that he has forgotten to eat. Ellen yells from the kitchen, something about how his progress is going with the tree, and he snaps out of his bittersweet trance and pulls open the attic stairs to get started. 

“Uh, just a minute,” he says. He finds what he is looking for, and then some. However, he refuses the siren song of rifling through old yearbooks and vacation souvenirs, as he knows Ellen will be none too pleased if he tarries any longer. He grabs the tree, which is wrapped in a trash bag for safe keeping, and he heads to the attic door. He catches his foot on the bag, drops the tree. He reaches in vain for a support beam just out of his reach.  

Blackness.  

He wakes up with an even worse headache that puts the one from the morning to shame. He squints across the room to see holiday decor, but he realizes that it isn’t his. The sight of strangers in hospital scrubs lets him know that he never made it to the holiday party circuit. Thanks to lifelong penchant for dramatic action flicks, he has the presence of mind to know that he took a nasty fall and can’t remember how, but he is grateful to be alive and otherwise healthy.  

“Honey, are you there?” asks Ellen. “I’m so glad you’re ok, but you took a bad fall in the attic when you were fetching the Christmas tree.” 

“The last thing I remember was queuing up some tunes and making a drink” Tom says. “So, fill in the blanks—what happened, and...what day is it?” 

“You made yourself a drink, but it was only your first one.” He keeps quiet, as there is no point in telling on himself that he snuck in another libation without her knowing.  

“You went up to the attic, and the next thing I know, you came crashing down through the dining room ceiling.”  

He almost takes a perverse sense of pride in this. “I’ve never been one to half-ass anything, I guess,” he says with a chuckle. “So, where are we now, and...what is the plan?” He itches from his impromptu bath in the attic insulation. 

The memory gap between his ascent into the attic and the hospital is understandable. Tom is surprised, however, to not have any recollection of what his and Ellen’s holiday plans were. He knows who she is, the life that they have, and the rest of the basic pertinent information. Yet the rest of the immediate holiday plans are a blank.  

Ellen almost senses what he is thinking and tries to put his mind at ease. “The doctors said that you might be a little fuzzy about the events of today, and any short term plans thereafter. It is normal. Once you get back into your routine and normal life, things will clear up.” 

With the headache medication kicking in, he begins to feel better and asks, “were there holiday parties or gatherings we had to go to tonight? I’m assuming so; your parents’ thing.”  

“Yes, but you don’t have to go if you feel that you need the rest. I’ll take care of you, and we can watch Die Hard.”  

Normally, that would be a gift on a silver platter for Tom. Yet for some reason, he finds that he is moved by the Christmas music over the hospital waiting room speakers. They make it to the car, and with nothing to lose, he asks more about the original Christmas plans.  

“Honey, I was thinking,” he says. She immediately wonders if the emergency room staff discharged him too early, as he never uses pet names with her, even the cliched kind. “The doctor says I have a clean bill of health, and if I’m up for it, I can go about my usual day to day if my head doesn’t feel too fuzzy.” He leans in, winks, and adds “whaddya say we head to your folks’ place and go with our plan A?” 

Since he doesn’t recall the details of holiday games or what dish they are supposed to bring, he feels relatively stress-free about the event. It is almost as if he gets the warm fuzzies of Christmas without the stress.  

Ellen blinks and finds herself at a loss for words for a moment. She halfway thinks that Tom should fall more often, but she dismisses the notion. “Uh, sure babe! I just have to finish the appetizers, but the presents are all wrapped.” She adds, “I took care of that portion when you were, um, ‘adventuring’ in the attic.”  

They get home, and Tom immediately puts on traditional Christmas music. He makes himself a hot cocoa because he is in the mood for it, not because alcohol is frowned upon with his pain medication. He senses a change, and Ellen senses it too. Just what happened when he fell and hit his head? Against her best advice, she does question it openly.  

“Hon, I know your memory and conception of upcoming events is a bit fuzzy,” she says. “But you do know we are going to my parents, right.” She delivers this in a warm, jovial tone, as she doesn’t want to break the spell or whatever it is that has become her beau. 

“I know,” he says with a smile. “And it isn’t lost on me that I normally hate going to such things, but since I don’t remember many details of this year’s party, why not?”  

He helps her wrap the appetizers—and a chocolate pie that she baked in addition—and they make their way to the car with the other gifts. There is no ice on the ground this year, as it is an El Nino winter so there is not a concern about him falling again and breaking whatever spell Tom is under.  

They get to the driveway of her parents’ home, and Tom doesn’t feel the usual dread. He is genuinely fine with smiling and catching up with everyone. What is happening to him? He chalks it up to the amnesia, and feels pretty confident that by the middle of the evening he will be back to his old self. At least he is satisfied that he was a decent human being for half of the affair.  

They enter unannounced, as is family tradition, and they bark out their hello’s. Ward, Ellen’s grandfather, takes their coats, while her father Ron greets her with a hug. When it is Tom’s turn, he surprises everyone by going in for a hug too. Ron and Ellen exchange bewildered glances mid embrace, and both wiggle their eyebrows in a “just go with it” expression. Tom has rolled with the punches as well, at least outwardly. But he privately wonders where his newfound warmth came from.  

Throughout the kitchen and living room, the same thing happens. He doesn’t feel odd about it anymore, he is just glad that he is feeling some peace and joy for the first time in years. Ellen’s mother Diane is pleasantly surprised, and he accepts her offer of Chardonnay to be polite. 

Later on outside, Ellen follows him for a pre-dinner smoke. “Pain meds!” she says in an excited whisper. She has been wracking her brain all evening, and this is what she has come up with for Tom the AntiScrooge, his behavior. 

“Um, I don’t have anything on me, but we can check your old man’s medicine cabinet” he quips. He knows where she is going with things, but he never could resist some dry humor.  

“Tom!” 

“Babe, look. I am just as bewildered as you. I don’t know what was knocked loose up in my noggin, but for some reason I feel enveloped in the warmth of Christmas.” He continues, “But is deeper than that, actually. I am truly grateful for what I have. You, a family of future in-laws that likes me for me. So what if there are silly holiday games to play and potluck dinner scenarios that stress us--” 

She shoots him an evil look, but it is one that quickly fades to surprise as she realizes that he said ‘future in-laws.’ 

“--ok, stress me out. And why was I stressed for the past few years, anyway? I’m not a Wall Street banker, but both you and I do ok. And these are people that friended me on social media because they wanted to, not because they wanted to spy or judge me. They are friendly to me and accept me, just like you do. And it is not lost on me that that is a tall order.” He was always self aware, if anything. 

Ellen’s eyes start to well up, but she smiles and asks him to continue. “And I have a bit of news. Even if your family was insufferable, I can’t be the best version of myself without you.” 

He drops to one knee, and the welly eyes are full-fledged tears now. “Ellen, will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you make me?” 

“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!” she shouts. Tom gets up to stand, but he slips and nearly falls a second time. It would almost be fitting, given the type of day that he has had.  

“I’ve gotta work on that,” he chuckles. She grabs him, but before she kisses him she has to ask one thing.  

“Are you sure you are all there? What with the fall and pain meds and a cocktail or two?”  

“Yes, darling. I’ve had nary a sip of white wine tonight, the pills are basically hot-rodded Advils, and the bump to the head made me fuzzy on things. But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”  

They kiss, and start to realize that everyone inside has been watching them. They are greeted with cheers, smiles, and hugs as they come back inside.  

“I was wondering when you were going to pop the question!” Ron says. “How long have you been planning such a romantic proposal?” asks Barbara, Ellen’s mother. “I don’t know, I forget, really” Tom says with a wry grin. The room erupts in laughter.  

After making the rounds, having dinner, and exchanging presents, Ellen and Tom settle onto a couch, and each has a glass of wine. A mellow nightcap to one crazy day. They toast to each other, for the day has been more unconventionally beautiful than anyone could have scripted.  

“To us,” he says. She raises her glass. “To us. May the best of our past be the worst of our future.”  

The next morning, Tom wakes with a headache again thanks to the prior day’s fall. But he doesn’t mind.