Joe Spagnolo: Cycle of life delivers happy Christmas: ‘Starting to wonder if I should give it a miss’

I’ve had an interesting lead-up to Christmas. I’m starting to wonder if I should give it a miss this year: whether Father Christmas is trying to send me a message that I should sit this one out. Let’s start with last Sunday. We were doing some grocery shopping when I slipped on a piece of lettuce on the shop floor and went arse over, hitting the ground with my Christmas shopping. It was very nice of the young lady at the shop to rush over to the old fart and check if he was OK. Anyway, my left knee took the brunt of the fall and I headed to the physio a day later to make sure only my ego was badly bruised. All good. The X-ray showed nothing much to worry about. But Father Christmas decided he wasn’t done with me yet. I have done two stints at Sir Charles Gairdner emergency department this week with stomach issues. I won’t go into exact details — let’s keep this clean. But the two young doctors who examined me over two separate visits reckoned I was OK to go home, though they recommended I get myself tested by a tummy expert. It’s funny what waiting in an emergency department, and then lying on your side on a hospital bed while the doctor searches for a glove and lube, can do to a man. It got me thinking about my life. Ridiculously, I’ve been struggling with turning 60 earlier this month. It’s not vanity, or anything stupid like that. It’s just that it hit me like a ton of bricks that I was entering the golden years — 10 good summers left, so to speak. Everyone around me said the right things: “You look great — you’re the spitting image of Clooney.” Or: “You’re Italian, mate, you get better with age.” But none of it resonated. I was officially old, in my books. So, when I found myself in ED this week, I kind of got a bit of a reality check. I realised I had been one lucky guy to make it to 60 when others, much younger than me, had not. All of a sudden, even just 10 good summers seemed like a pretty good outcome. So I started making deals with God. “Just give me 10 more summers and I’ll be happy,” I told God. “No more moaning about my sore knee, promise.” I also reflected on the cycle of life. Christmas, for me, has not been the same since my father passed away just a few years ago. He was almost 93 and had a happy life. Still, his death has left a big void in my life. I find myself wishing more and more that I’d said things to him I was always too gutless to say. In our Italian family, love was always expressed through actions, rather than words. I never told Dad I loved him. And that kills me. As is usual (as long as I’m not back at the ED), I’ll travel today to Bunbury to see my mother for Christmas. I’ll do what I have always done since Dad passed away — try not to look at the seat he’d always be in around the dining-room table at Christmas. Along with my brothers, I’ll try and step up to the plate for Mum’s sake. Through the years, the cycle of life has delivered me four grandchildren — Noa, Rocky, Nicholas and Lucas. I call Noa “Junior Pugs” because she reminds me of my daughter. I call Rocky my “Little Balboa” and Nicholas “Fonzie”, because he never has a hair out of place. And I call Lucas “Little Joe”, because he reminds me of myself, always observing, always thinking, looking for grey clouds. And this year, at Christmas, we have the arrival of baby Bella — Noa and Rocky’s baby sister. I am reminded that life goes on. That a little bit of my father lives on through his great-grandchildren. And for this, I am truly grateful. Love you, Dad. Merry Christmas to all.