Christmas: grieving what should have been and having hope anyway
In support of
The Castillo Family
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The Castillo Family
Christmas week was one for the books — and not in the way you’d expect. Monday was my birthday, and I began the day with my three-week post-chemo checkup. Instead of reassurance, we got discouraging news: my white blood cell count was even lower than it had been the previous two rounds of chemo. It was frustrating and unsettling, and it immediately made Alex and me question what Christmas with family would even look like this year. After a year of appointments, scans, and constant waiting, it felt like yet another reminder that cancer doesn’t pause for holidays or milestones.
That afternoon, daycare called to say Ben was very sick. By the time Alex picked him up, he had a high fever and could barely walk. An immediate trip to urgent care confirmed our fears — flu A 🤦🏼♀️. With my immune system already compromised, there was no room for hesitation or wishful thinking. Alex, my parents, and I quickly made the hard but necessary decision for Teddy and me to stay at my parents’ house while Alex took time off work to care for Ben at home. It wasn’t how any of us wanted the week to go, but it was what love and protection looked like in that moment.
Teddy, my parents, and I all started preventative Tamiflu and took vitamins around the clock, doing everything we could to keep sickness from spreading. It felt strange to be physically separated as a family during a week that’s always been centered on togetherness, but I was deeply aware of the sacrifice Alex was making — choosing exhaustion and isolation so that I could stay safe.
This also meant canceling plans with extended family on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. One by one, traditions and long-standing plans were set aside. Hard decisions continued to be made — the kind that come from protecting one another, even when it hurts — and as they stacked up, things began to feel heavy. It was exhausting to keep adjusting expectations and grieving what should have been, all while trying to hold onto hope in the middle of it.
By Wednesday, Ben was finally fever-free, which meant we could carefully see Alex and Ben on Christmas morning. We hugged less, kept our distance more than we wanted, and adjusted expectations yet again — but even that small, imperfect slice of togetherness felt like a gift. This year taught me that presence doesn’t always look the way we imagine it should, but it still counts.
As if that weren’t enough, two of our Stanford nephews also came down with flu A, so the Stanfords weren’t able to join us on Christmas Day either. For the first time in my entire life, my sister and I weren’t together for Christmas. We didn’t all gather on Christmas Eve, sleep over at my parents’ house, and wake up together on Christmas morning. Traditions I’ve taken for granted were suddenly missing, and I felt the weight of that loss more than I expected.
And yet — between the sickness, fewer people together, quieter moments, and noticeably fewer presents under the tree — I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful. Thankful for a body that, even when weak and worn down, has carried me through the hardest year of my life. Thankful for a husband who has shouldered so much without complaint. Thankful for parents who step in without hesitation, and family who adapts, sacrifices, and loves so well — whether close by or from afar.
Most of all, I am thankful for the birth of Jesus. In a year where so much felt uncertain, fragile, and out of my control, Christmas reminded me that hope entered the world quietly, humbly, and right in the middle of the mess. This Christmas didn’t look like the ones before it — but it may have been the most meaningful one yet.
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