The Great Escape

It was the day after Thanksgiving, November 26, 2014.

I got up early and somehow found the courage to crawl into the closet under the stairs and pull out the boxes filled with Pat’s Christmas treasures. The ones filled with a lifetime of memories from three decades of Christmases together. Her treasured collection of Hallmark “Frosty Friends” ornaments, ribbons, bows. A few miles of suspect mini lights. And her cherished singing-and-dancing stuffed animals. Like the floppy-antlered reindeer that sings “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” while rocking back and forth. The kittens that pop up out of a box and “mew” Jingle Bells.

Pat loved Christmas kitsch. Pat lived for Christmas.

I dragged the pre-lit artificial Christmas tree carcass out of its box, stacked it onto its stand, rearranged the furniture in the living room, and placed that seven-foot wonder of Chinese manufacturing ingenuity in front of the arched front window for the entire neighborhood to see. Then made a feeble attempt to decorate it.

By the time I finally got the lights to work and hung a box of ornaments, I realized I couldn’t spend the next three weeks looking at it. While I know she would have appreciated my effort, this was just too painful.

For me, the joy of Christmas died with Pat.

A year earlier, the mood was even worse.

It had been only three months since Pat had died. Faced with the most depressing Christmas ever, I convinced my attorney and my life-long buddy John to both join me in Las Vegas.

If you’re ever anxious to escape the stress of the holidays, this is the place. December 25th? Just another day on The Strip. I’m sure there is someone, somewhere in Clark County, Nevada that celebrates Christmas. We didn’t meet him or her.

To say it was a surreal experience is a bit of an understatement. Sitting in the sports book at the Venetian drinking beer at 10:30 AM Christmas morning, betting on NBA basketball?

The Venetian Hotel sports book, Christmas Day 2013.

Ho-ho-fucking-ho.

We did pretty well, too. My attorney knows his roundball. And he’d done his homework, as always. John spent most of the time in the room, his head throbbing from Christmas Eve cocktails and the inescapable “fragrance” pumped through the casino’s HVAC system to neutralize the smell of cigarettes. His objection was justified. It was foul. Even as an ex-smoker, I’d rather breathe second-hand smoke than some musky feminine hygiene spray.

Vegas didn’t make me miss Pat any less, but it was, as always, a remarkable diversion. Similar to how an abscessed tooth can help you forget a sprained ankle.

We ate very well. Drank plenty. And being able to spend that time with my two best friends was a blessing.

So, there I was, a year later. Standing in my living room. Staring at a plastic Christmas tree with a dozen cheesy ornaments hanging from its wire branches. Tears running down my cheeks.

I needed to go. I really needed to get away from this.