Empty houses and Christmas trees without lights, that says it all. “Hundreds of families will spend Christmas in the hospital,” summarizes the new advertising from the CHU Sainte-Justine Foundation, which reminds us that illness does not take time off during the holidays. Storyteller Fred Pellerin and his daughter Marie-Fée, spokesperson for this campaign, know something about this: Marie-Fée was diagnosed with cancer on December 24 a few years ago.
When he told his father’s nightmare to Everybody talks about it, I have rarely seen Fred Pellerin so vulnerable. It is understandable. What’s worse than the prospect of losing your child? This is not in the order of things, it is a scandal that we refuse with all our fibers.
But Marie-Fée got through it, there is hope, so don’t hesitate to donate to research for cancer, this latent dirt in too many bodies, young or old, which ruins so many people and their families. I think of Karl Tremblay, of Michel Côté, of my friend the writer Simon Roy, of Caroline Dawson, of my cousin in remission, in an alternation between dead and survivors.
I love Christmas and I hate Christmas at the same time, because if joy and family reunions are in order, the suffering is also exacerbated.
It’s a challenge, spending your first Christmas without a loved one who has left us. I will always remember the first one without my father, particularly unsuccessful. I had gone all out, desperate and angry. I still wanted to bring my loved ones together, even though my father had just died of a heart attack three months before. I told myself that we certainly weren’t going to be screaming in our corners on Christmas Eve. So huge tree, big buffet, gifts for everyone, I even dressed up my late dog as an elf.
But that Christmas of 2005, it was me, the turkey. Stuffed with good intentions. No one felt like celebrating, starting with my mother, who suddenly became a young widow. I still have difficulty looking at the photos from that evening where her grief pierces every image. The guests were stressed and expected us to break down at any moment, which we did when we raised our glasses in memory of my father at the stroke of midnight. Exhausted by the orphan’s grief and the hostess’s stress, I went to bed straight away, completely drunk because I hadn’t been able to eat, with my heart broken and my stomach in knots.
Why didn’t I cancel? It’s okay to skip Christmas when you’re grieving, especially if we’re the ones who usually entertain. This is not a gift to give to anyone, believe me. But I was so furious at the fate that had taken my father from me too soon, so in denial that he was gone forever, that I thought I had to be strong for everyone and that life could continue as before.
Life never goes back to the way it was, we just move on with our wounds, and America will not be great again because she never was. America cries by purchasing gifts and decorations at Dollarama.
Christmas will not be easy this year for the Common Front strikers, the TVA and Radio-Canada employees who will lose their jobs, and the families who have seen their rent or mortgage double at the same time as their grocery bill. And I wonder if all these difficulties don’t affect donations to organizations and foundations that support good causes, while we give money to already rich hockey teams.
At the same time, I have always refused this idea that life is only a valley of tears – especially during that Christmas of 2005 when I should have taken a break. It’s important, celebration and joy, otherwise we wouldn’t get through existence. If you have love, health and a little food, leave all the unnecessary glitz and shopping spree to rest. Celebrate the pleasure of being together – especially since we’ve had our share of missed Christmases with the pandemic – and invite the lonely (at my house, it’s always a duty to welcome everyone). But be understanding towards those who, for one reason or another, will not have the heart to celebrate. Understanding and empathy can sometimes be great gifts.