Christmas 2024
It’s a quieter Christmas than normal.
My infusion was moved up from the end of January to the 23rd of December. Inflammation doesn’t worry about special events and now I need to avoid those who are sick while my immune system is shutting down and waiting for the second infusion in two weeks.
Merriam-Webster dictionary defines an infusion as:
1. the act or process of infusing
an infusion of new ideas
2. a product obtained by infusing
herbal infusions
3. the continuous slow introduction of a solution especially into a vein
First of all, I hate definitions that include the word in it, but when I think of the word infusion I think of the first definition, especially the example the dictionary gives, “an infusion of new ideas.” When I sat in the squishy faux leather chair being waited on by nurses, watching the drip drip drip of the IV, there was only anxiety. I’ve felt pushed down this path, hurtling to this moment, only for time to slow down. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Nurses were dressed cheerfully in reindeer antlers. Jingle bells softly followed one nurse’s movements. Woozy from the Benadryl, I closed my eyes. I could use an infusion of new ideas, new energy, new something. Instead, I am getting infused with a drug a doctor once called “AIDs in a bottle.”
Usually, in December I am reflecting on the past year. What I’ve read, listened to, watched. I find that I don’t want to. This past year has been difficult and I want to be ready to let go, but at the same time unwilling to let this time slip away. Time seems to have become an enemy of late. Everything hurtling forward with no time for reflection.
Now I am sitting on my couch on Christmas Eve, tired, my stomach upset from the infusion. I’m drinking mint tea, watching my kid ham it up on a video call with his cousins. Christmas music plays somewhere. Coffee cake for Christmas morning is baking. Our gingerbread houses are drying on the table, hopefully staying together and not slowly sliding apart.
Usually, we are hustling on this day. Dressing up for church and traveling up to Marquette to see family, but instead we are having a slow day at home, which is unique and kind of awesome. I pushed to have everything done before the infusion and now, now I can sit. Even though I am dealing with the side effects of the infusion, the stillness is welcome. There is snow outside. A fire in the fireplace. I crave this so much. Since the holidays have started it has been a continuous go go go. And it was mostly fun stuff. My niece’s band concert. Going to the Botanical Gardens where they put on an amazing light show. Baking cookies with my grandma who is slowly fading into Alzheimer’s. Treasured, fleeting moments threaded through other moments, blood draws, doctor’s appointments, and work. Every time I have stepped into a doctor’s office this month I’ve wondered, when does this stop? How are we all still moving forward?
So many have been crushed by this year. War. An awful outcome to America’s election. People’s rights eroding away. Skyrocketing prices. A warming planet. Things that make me wonder as I go about my day, how complicit am I? And why am I willing to linger in this awful year?
It nags at me, a few days before a doctor’s appointment, right before trying a new treatment: hope. Hope sings in the small quiet moments. Before anxiety, before fear creeps in. The week between Christmas and New Year has always felt like a limbo, one where hope grows. I wish I could stay here forever, awaiting a new year, waiting to see if this infusion will work, waiting…which is ironic considering I feel like I spend most of my life waiting and tend to hate it. But not now. Not with my family around me. Christmas lights softly glowing. Presents all wrapped, my offering for all the wrongs I've committed during the year. Ready to begin again, but not yet making that step. Waiting in hope.
Such beautiful writing, Alaina.