The Christmases of years past often blur together, but some stand out and remain cherished forever. My father’s last Christmas at home began as a disaster but became something extraordinarily special.

About a dozen years ago, my father was in rapid decline due to a cruel disease that had severely diminished his ability to walk and speak. We knew the time was approaching when he would require 24-hour skilled nursing care. My mother, supported by hired part-time caregivers and nearby family members, worked tirelessly to make his life comfortable and to keep him at home for as long as possible.

The broken poinsettia was such a minor incident, but it was one setback too many. 'Can’t anything go right?' my mother asked as she started to cry.

It was a little before Christmas when my father found the words to say, “It’s time,” lovingly helping the family make the difficult decision as to when we should seek out a nursing facility. He was a generous, compassionate man who even at this awful time sought to give what he could to help his wife and family. His assent to this final move was the gift he offered. A nice nearby facility that my mother could visit every day was found, and the move was scheduled for the new year.

Caregiving is also tough. My mother, who might otherwise have been enjoying her golden years with travel and leisure, was instead a round-the-clock caregiver who was extremely tired after several years in this role.

But there would still be one last Christmas at home! All of their children and grandchildren would be there, including those who lived in other cities and who had started making their own family Christmas traditions. We all made plans to converge on our hometown to celebrate one last all-family Christmas at my parents’ house.

My mother’s excitement about this Christmas gathering gave her strength as she planned for the wonderful meals and the time we would all spend together. The out-of-town family members were scheduled to arrive on December 23.

But things went very bad late on the night of December 22.

My dad experienced a medical emergency that caused him to take a bad fall. My mother called an ambulance and then contacted my wife and me, as we lived in the same city. By the time we arrived at her house, the ambulance had already taken my father to the hospital, and my mother had decided to drive herself there to meet it.

Her night got even worse. While driving to the hospital alone after midnight, my mother’s car had a flat tire, forcing her to pull over on the side of the highway. My wife and I changed course and headed to where my mother was stranded. Before we arrived, she called to tell us that a police officer had pulled up behind her. After hearing her situation, he kindly offered her a ride to the hospital. My wife and I redirected again, arriving at the hospital shortly thereafter. While my wife comforted my mother and assisted with the hospital intake process, I left to take care of the abandoned car.

By the time the rest of the family started arriving the next day, my father was checked into a hospital room and his injuries were being attended to.

Discharge would not occur until after Christmas, meaning there would be no final Christmas at home.

Over the next 36 hours, a constant stream of family members came and went from his hospital room. As the afternoon of Christmas Eve progressed, the family decided to celebrate Christmas Eve together in his hospital room.

Gifts from my parents to the grandchildren would be brought into the room, as would gifts being given to my mother and father. They would be opened on Christmas Eve in the hospital room. A few decorations would also be brought in, and although there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree in the room, a big, beautiful poinsettia from my mother’s house would be brought over.

As dusk settled in on Christmas Eve, the family converged on the hospital, with the grandkids hauling in presents from the cars and the women heading in with trimmings to decorate the room.

But during transport, some presents had shifted and fallen on the poinsettia, knocking it over and breaking several stems. The broken poinsettia was left in the car.

With the family all assembled in the hospital room, my mother inquired about the poinsettia, and she was told of its fate. While disappointed that this Christmas was not playing out as she had envisioned, until now she had stoically persisted in addressing the challenges. After all that had occurred in the past 48 hours, the broken poinsettia was such a minor incident, but it was one setback too many. “Can’t anything go right?” my mother asked as she started to cry.

The daughters-in-law led her into the corridor to console her, while others stayed behind to sing Christmas songs for my father. Meanwhile, the two oldest grandsons returned to the car to retrieve the scattered poinsettia parts. They brought the pieces back into the hospital and, with duct tape borrowed from a nursing station, carefully reattached the broken branches to the original stalks.

The boys triumphantly brought the taped-together poinsettia into the hospital room, and this time it was my father’s turn to be emotional. First there were a few tears, followed by his hearty laugh, as the boys showed off their poinsettia repairs. It was a laugh we all knew well but that we hadn’t heard much recently.

The family was now all back in the room, and my mother was beaming with pride at the love her children and grandchildren were showing to her, to my father, and to each other. We sang carols and opened presents. There was lots of hugging and abundant laughter.

At the center of it all was a beloved man whose earthly race was almost over and a poinsettia held together by duct tape, a poinsettia that will always be a cherished memory to the family assembled in that hospital room.