Do They Make a Card For This? By BJ Lacross

“To My Wonderful Sister,” read the top of the greeting card my dad had picked out for my mom.  I felt the heat work its way up through the skin on my face as I slowly opened the card.  I didn’t want to read further, but I didn’t want to make eye contact with my dad either.  He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease two years prior, which initially affected his speech and short-term memory.  He still managed to work and continue with other daily activities, but there was no avoiding the inevitable as the doctors frequently pointed out.

The “inevitable” had chose Christmas Eve to manifest. The card I was reading was clearly designed to be given between sisters, not from a husband to his wife as my dad intended.  When I finally had the courage to look up from the card, I saw the same smile and look in his eye he would have whenever my mom read a card he gave her.  He always prided himself on his card choosing ability--  he would read card after card until he found the perfect sentiment and then underline key words and phrases before carefully tucking it away in the envelope.  This card received the same treatment except the emphasized words didn’t make sense for my parents.  The only thing I could do at that moment was smile and nod, hoping my eyes didn’t betray me. As I carefully slid the card back into the envelope, he pushed some money at me.  

“Go take the dog out and as for a change,” he said.

“Dad, we don’t have a dog,” I replied, handing the hundred back.

“No.”  He pushed the hundred back to me.

“What?”

“The treat, under it,” he said, pointing at the Christmas tree.

“Oh, you want to go shopping for mom.”

He nodded.

“Well let me get my coat and we’ll go.”

“No. You take the dog and do it.”

“We haven’t had a dog for years.”

“You do it!” he snapped with a scowl.

“You want me to go shopping?”

“Yeah.”

I asked him what he wanted me to buy but he turned and walked away.  It didn’t really register why he was sending me out on my own; we had always gone shopping for my mom’s gifts from him together.  Every Christmas Eve since I was ten-years-old it had been tradition that we would go from store to store, fighting the crowds together, looking for the perfect gifts. I wasn’t ready for him not to go.  Was it because I was sixteen and finally able to drive?  Was he becoming afraid of going in public?  I didn’t know how to ask him so I just got in the car and headed toward town.

The whole way to the mall, I thought about how I was going to handle the card situation. I knew I couldn’t let my mom see the card, but at the same time, I couldn’t keep quiet about this as it might’ve been a sign that the Alzheimer’s was progressing. I thought about warning her beforehand so that she wasn’t completely shocked on Christmas morning. I didn’t want the holiday to be ruined so my decision, however wrong or right, was to buy a new card and tell my dad I lost the one he bought if he noticed the difference.

I wandered the mall unable to focus as I pushed my way through the crowds of fellow last-minute shoppers. Store after store, I picked up a sweater here and a trinket there but nothing made it to checkout. I finally wove my way through the chattering mass of shoppers and plopped down on an empty bench by the coffee cart.

This should’ve actually been a much quicker trip compared to those in the past because there was no wearing down of my dad so he would relent and get mom the things she really wanted. It was like a little game. My mom had become wise to our annual trips so she would give me her Christmas list a few days before. When it came time to shop, dad would start us out at the store of his choosing and it was my mission to get him to the stores that carried the items on her list. Looking back, my dad was probably playing me just as much as I thought I was playing him-- his game being to prolong our one-on-one time together and mine to help him impress mom.

This year was different. That one-on-one time was with myself. Most teenagers would jump at the chance to get away on their own, but I didn’t want to be alone at that moment. I watched the people walking by, some carrying overstuffed shopping bags with determined looks on their faces and others rapt in conversation with those next to them. Parents dragging children and children dragging parents, everyone hurrying to get those last few items so the holiday wouldn’t be a flop. I needed to get out of there so I mapped my route and pulled myself off the bench.     

Carrying my own overstuffed bag, I rounded the corner to my last stop, the Hallmark store. I marched in and paused as I surveyed the racks of cards before me. I started to feel the heat rising under my cheeks again. Pushing forward, I made my way to the Christmas cards. The selection was slim, but there were still a few options in the “wife” area. The first card I opened wasn’t wordy enough and the next didn’t seem right either. How the hell am I going to do this? I thought to myself. After reading through all of them, I finally settled on the fourth one I had read and headed to the cashier.

At sixteen, I hadn’t made a lot of greeting card purchases in my life so I hadn’t learned to flip the card over when you present it to the cashier if you didn’t want them to get a glimpse into your personal life. So as the cashier rang up the card, she gave me a quick glance with a slight furrow of her brow. Please don’t ask, was all I was thinking.   

Once in the car, I signed my father’s name to the new card. As I slipped it into the envelope that housed the original, guilt overwhelmed me.  The “sister” card was tucked safely away in the glove compartment where it would remain until the 27th.  Once I got home, I ran up to my room with the shopping bags and my mom pretended not to see. After showing the purchases to my dad, he just nodded and patted me on the shoulder. I wrapped and piled them under the tree, attaching the card to the biggest box. “Merry Christmas,” I whispered.