The spirit of Christmas saved our Christmas
Our family has a Christmas angel. He got my mother out of bed on Christmas morning in 1985. The night before, a rear wheel had fallen off Mom’s wheelchair.
About 11 on Christmas Eve, the turkey was prepped, pies baked and the table sparkled with holiday china, crystal and silver. Underneath the Christmas tree waited a pile of pretty packages. Leaving for Midnight Mass, Mom’s favorite service, we surveyed the scene with satisfaction.
It was a short drive to church. I was grateful to stop right outside the door in a wheelchair parking space. There was the annual crush of Christmas churchgoers, and the temperature was teasing zero.
After the joyful service, we lingered to wish longtime fellow worshippers a Merry Christmas. At home, I lifted Mom’s wheelchair out of the trunk, and she slid into it from the front seat. I was pushing her hurriedly toward the kitchen door. Without warning, I was holding up the wheelchair, not pushing it. A rear tire – essential for balance -- had broken loose and catapulted across the garage.
We were stranded in the middle of the frigid garage at 2:30 in the morning. I couldn’t push Mom forward; I could only prevent her from toppling backwards. Inside, my 14-year-old daughter, Cherie and Great-Aunt Edie slept. Mom and I screamed until we were hoarse.
Finally, in desperation, Mom took a metal lipstick case from her purse and hurled it at the kitchen door. Our three dogs heard and raised a ruckus. That woke our sleeping beauties.
Cherie and I managed, painstakingly to push Mom into the house and all the way to her bedroom. Drawing mightily on our combined strength, we held her chair steady while she transferred to bed.
My last thought before sleeping was sad. Christmas was Mom’s favorite holiday; she’d prepared for it for months. Now, without a four-wheel wheelchair, she’d have to spend the day in bed.
I awoke four hours later and as scheduled turned on the oven. Then, I got out the Yellow Pages, turned to medical equipment and began phoning. Determined though I was to rent or borrow a wheelchair, I was probably wasting my time. It was Christmas morning, after all, but I persisted.
That being before the widespread use of answering machines, I dialed and listened to the phone ringing, time after time. At last, under the M’s, I reached a groggy, live person.
My best recollection, though understandably fallible after 33 years, is that the voice on the phone belonged to Gary Rucker, owner of Medic House. I explained our predicament. He was very nice, very understanding as he explained that he and his family would soon be going to church and after to family Christmas. He regretted that he couldn’t help us. He’d be glad to come and get Mom’s wheelchair to repair and leave her a loaner after Christmas.
I slogged fruitlessly through the rest of the alphabet. At last, I hung up and put the turkey in the oven, crestfallen. The sweetest, kindest, most wonderful person, the personification of courage and grace was going to spend Christmas in bed.
The rest of the household began to stir. The dogs clamored to go outside. Great-Aunt Edie demanded coffee. Cherie was torn between wanting to open presents and being with her grandma, whom she adored. We decided to delay opening gifts until Mom had her loaner wheelchair and could join us so we all lounged in our bathrobes in Mom’s bedroom.
That’s when the doorbell rang. I answered to see a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a wheelchair … the man from Medic House, clearly in a hurry, but smiling kindly.
“We couldn’t bear the thought of your mother being trapped in bed today because I wouldn’t bring a wheelchair,” he said. “So here, Merry Christmas. I’ll pick up your mother’s wheelchair tomorrow.”
As he hurried to his car, the woman and kids waiting for him waved. Blinking back happy tears, I waved back.
