Christmas

Today I remember Christmases past. I remember the year Colby was fifteen months old and kicked Santa Claus. The year he was a little more than two and was afraid to sled down my mom's slightly sloping driveway. We made snow angels instead. I remember the year he was three and got the choo choo train and the drum he had been asking for all year, every day, since the Christmas he was two.

By Colby's fourth Christmas he and my mom and I were sledding down the bigger hill in her yard like pros. That was also the year he begged to go to the dinosaur exhibit at the Minnesota Science Museum, then screamed when he saw the first dinosaur and refused to go in. By age eight Colby had graduated to sledding the hills at the local golf course and by age ten he was beginning to snowboard. We built snow forts and snow men (and snow women and dogs) and had a number of snowball fights.

In between the snow, there were trips to other museums, art exhibits, plays, concerts, restaurants, and lots and lots of movies. And board games. Colby always won at Michigan Rummy. And there were always projects Mom needed done. Colby fixed the gate to the downstairs when he was about twelve and it still works. He re-hung closet doors, helped clean out those same closets, and learned to drive on snow.

When Colby was maybe nine, he and Mom and I made cardboard swords and decorated them glitter, beads, and bits of sparkly fabric from my old skating costumes. He made cookies with the neighbor behind us and we went for winter walks in the neighboring woods. He and I checked out the neighbor's houses from the front by walking on the frozen lake, being sure to stay close to the shoreline. We snuggled during blizzards, went to church, and drove around in the evenings and looked at Christmas lights.

I am so grateful for these wonderful memories. Christmas will never be the same without Colby, without family. I struggle with this new reality, in finding my place in holiday doings and the family gatherings of others. For now I ignore them. Colby's loss is still too fresh, too painful. Someday, maybe, the holidays will mean something to me once again. In the meantime I am blessed to have had wonderful Christmases past.

Family

Easter is just a few days away. It is another holiday I plan to ignore. But that is hard to do. Like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Easter is a time that is filled with references to family in newspapers, television, and radio. Even billboards and retail stores are filled with references to the holiday. Holidays, however, are for families. For those of us without, they are hard. The memories are bittersweet because there is no family left to enjoy holidays with. Ever. The years loom bleakly ahead.

Then again maybe my grief is just too new. Maybe holidays will get better. Maybe I can establish new traditions on my own. Maybe. I do understand that family is who and what you make it. Families these days do not have to biologically related to you. I think, though, when your life expectations of having children and grandchildren are suddenly taken from you, that the adjustment is harder than if you never had those expectations at all.

I try. I try to smile when other people talk of their families, their siblings, and kids and nieces and nephews. I try not to cry. This issue is, after all, mine. I do not harbor grudges for the joy others have. I am happy for them. Being sad for me is a separate issue and I am glad I can make the distinction.

I never expected life to be so hard. So grueling. I know this is what life must have been like for Colby, living with untreated mental illness. He felt so bleak about the future, about any possibilities of positive happenings, of success. Yet he managed to smile. He was able to be happy for others. I can do the same. I just have to dig deeper, try harder. And I will. Somehow. I will.

Ornaments

I pull the empty Christmas boxes out of the garage and up the steps to the living room where I deposit them on the living room floor. Then I turn and survey my mom's Christmas tree. It is an artificial tree, a little taller than 6 feet, and it is loaded with ornaments, some of which date back to the 1950s. Each ornament has a story, a history, a place in our family.

I begin to pull ornaments off the tree. one by one, wrap them and place them in a box. Here's the tiny plastic horse jumping over a fence that a friend's mother gave me the Christmas I was eight. Here are the little metal raspberries that our local gas station used to give away during the holidays. Each one is a different color and I remember how excited I was when we got enough gas for me to go inside the station and choose a new one. Here's the angel I got in Hawaii, the beautiful ornaments with loops of hanging pearls that our neighbor made 50 years ago, and the painted birds that look so realistic that every cat we've had has tried to "catch" one.

I make selective picks from the tree, delaying the time when I have to take the loops of colored paper that Colby made when he was three. My hands shake as I touch the paper and tears roll down my face. as I lovingly wrap the paper in tissue and place it in the box. Next is the reindeer head made from Popsicle sticks. Colby made a dozen or more that year, the year he was eight, and gave them to everyone he knew. Then there are the pine cones Colby painted when he was 14, the lovely star ornament he gave my mom when he was 20, and the Snoopy ornament he gave me last year. By this time I have to sit down, the tears are falling so fast I cannot see.

The last ornament is the spire at the top of the tree. This was always Colby's job, to take the spire off and it was one of the last things we'd do before we left Minnesota to head back to Nashville. Mom always had the tree up and decorated by the time we arrived, but we always took it down. Even when he was small, two, three, four years old, I'd lift him up to the top of the tree and he'd carefully pluck the ornament and reverently hand it to me.

I reach for the spire. It's the second spire we've had in my lifetime. This one must be about 30 years old. I am all cried out by this time. The spire is wrapped and packed and I carry five boxes of ornaments back to the garage. I don't know if I can do this again. Next year. Next year, if the tree goes up at all, it may be better to hire someone to take it down, for there are too many memories, too many painful remembrances of the one person who should be here . . . and is not.

Gifts

This is the time of year when friends and families exchange gifts. This is the time of year that Colby and I together would choose gifts and wrap them. Together. He and I.

I am not up for the physical exchange of gifts this year. It doesn’t seem right to do this without Colby. Next year. Maybe. But that I do not exchange gifts does not mean that I don’t have any. I have plenty.

My gifts this year are great friends, strangers who have gone out of their way to help me, clients who keep me busy, my health. My gifts are work that I enjoy; horses, dogs, and cats that I love; a safe place to live. My gifts include wonderful memories of Colby, many things to remember him by, the knowledge he is at peace in a place that is better than the planet on which we live.

While I have lived this year through the worst nightmare any parent can experience, life could be much worse. I could be homeless, indigent, without friends or support. I could be sick, without transportation, or live in fear. My gifts are that I have none of those and plenty of the rest. I also have a sense of peace about Colby’s passing. Today anyway. Tomorrow may be another story. Another day. But today I feel he is happy where he is and that’s all I ever wanted for him, that’s all any parent ever wants for their children. Happiness. I am still very sad, distraught, helpless that Colby could not find what he needed here. I will feel his loss deeply with every inch of my being, every breath I take, every second of every day until it is my time to join him. But that is my sadness, my grief, my loss. Not Colby’s, but mine. This holiday season I know Colby is happy and that is my biggest gift of all.

Premonition?

Last year at this time, as Colby and I drove to Minnesota to visit my mom, he turned to me in the truck and said, “I want this to be a really good Christmas; I think it is the last one we will all spend together.”

I, of course, thought Colby meant my mom might not be around this year. She was 85 last year. At that age, every day, every hour, is a gift. And that is, probably, what Colby meant. Colby had plans, things he wanted to see, do, experience. I know it was not his intent to leave us.

When Colby said those words it never crossed my mind that it was going to be Colby who was not with us this year. If it had, I wonder what I would have done differently? Anything? Everything? I know I would have hugged him more, told him I loved him more. I would have asked him that, when his time came, to find relatives and loved ones who had already passed and tell them how much I love and miss them.

While Colby always felt he would not live to be old, I do not think, a year ago, that he felt he only had a few days left. If he had, I also wonder what he would have done differently. How would he have spent his remaining days? Would he have traveled? Played more music? Eaten more junk food? Spent more time with friends? What would any of us do if we knew this holiday would be our last?

Were Colby’s words a premonition, or just the reality of having an 85-year-old grandmother who is not in great physical shape? We will never know and even if we did, knowing this particular fact would not make any difference. What will make a difference is to let those around us know we care. When we greet friends, we need to let them know how truly glad we really are to see them. We need to listen closer, help and support more, smile when we can, give as circumstances allow. I hope everyone reading this has many, many wonderful holidays ahead, but even more, I hope everyone makes the most of each and every day, whether the days number 100 or 10,000.

Decorations

When Colby was younger he loved decorating for the holidays. This year I am not up to it but several people suggested a small display in memory of Colby. After giving it some thought I decide to decorate the rose bush I planted at the place where Colby passed. It is still a small rose bush, but it is a Knockout so it blooms here in Tennessee almost all year.

I head to the basement to find suitable decorations but close up the first box I find as soon as I open it. This is the box with all the decorations Colby made. The deer face out of Popsicle sticks, the chain of colored paper circles, the spray painted pine cones. I can't look at them. Maybe next year.

The next box is filled with older decorations. ornaments from my childhood. Fragile. Not at all suitable for hanging outdoors on a rose bush. I finally find a box filled with an assortment of holiday greenery and at the bottom is a pile of small, stiff bows. Colby picked the bows out when he was 13 and he wanted something special for the living room window. It was our first holiday season in our new new house. Next to the bows I find a small, white ceramic dove. I don't remember where it came from, but we've had it a long time. It will contrast nicely with the bows.

I drive to the spot and hang the bows on the rose bush. It is cold and windy and the branches of the bush are still quite small. But, I find some that are strong enough to bear the weight of the bows. I realize they  may not hold up in the winter weather, but they look nice today. Understated, tasteful. And the dove adds something special.

If Colby is looking down I hope he realizes how much I wish this bush was not here, that I was not standing in the biting wind looking at a poor substitute for the many hours we shared hanging holiday decorations. But no matter how much I want to I can't change what is, so maybe Colby will see the love and thought and care that the decorated rose represents. Maybe he will see how much he is missed, how much he is still loved.

I think as I walk back to my truck that I would like to turn into the dove and fly up to heaven, to Colby. I will, someday, but that day is not today. Instead, I wipe my eyes, start my truck, and drive away with a last glance in my rear view mirror of Colby's Christmas rose.

Masks

As we head into Thanksgiving, masks are a hot topic in my online support group. Other grieving parents specifically talk about the masks we wear in public to make people think we are doing okay, that we are coping, getting on with life, functioning. Then we get home, or company leaves, or we hang up the phone and we take the mask off. That's when we fall apart. Completely, uncontrollably. It doesn't matter if our child passed yesterday or six years ago yesterday. The grief is still overwhelming. We are still crying ourselves to sleep every single night. The loss is still far greater than anyone should ever have to bear.

This removing of the mask happens dozens of times a day. The good news is that we have all progressed far enough in our grief that we are able to hold things together for short periods of time. If we have to. But the toll that takes is so great that the build up of emotion then explodes. So, rather than staying on an even keel of grief that progresses slowly, every grieving parent I have spoken with rides this huge roller coaster of emotion. How I wish all of us could stop this thing and get off.

But we can't. I get emails every day from people all around the world who read this blog. If you have a friend or family member who has suffered an exceptional loss at any time, during this holiday season:

1. Please mention the loved one's name frequently.
2. Spend time talking with the person about their loved one.
3. It's okay if they cry. In fact, it is healing if they do.
4. Offer your support, but do not be offended if they do not accept it. That you offered is enough.
5. Do not judge their method of grieving. Everyone does it differently.
6. Recognize that past loss can be as raw as new loss, especially during the holidays.
7. Do not force people to "get out." Sometimes it is better to stay home.
8. The best gift is the gift of remembrance. Remembering the loved one is the best gift you can give to someone who is grieving.

Insensitivity

So far today I have six emails that wish my family and me a Happy Thanksgiving. These are from people who know Colby has passed away. These are from people who know that I have no family to spend Thanksgiving with. It is still three days until the actual holiday. I wonder how many more people will be so insensitive?

I am sure that there are still a few "happy" Thanksgivings in my future. 2009 will not be one of them. It is too soon; my emotions are too raw. My grief is too strong. Yes, I have things to be thankful for. Many things, and I give thanks every day. But being thankful and being happy are not the same thing. Not by a long shot.

I understand the people who have emailed me are trying to be kind. But it is good to remember that those of us who have experienced recent tragedy, who have had recent loss, who do not have family to spend holidays with, will not celebrate the day in the traditional way. We no longer have the option of joining hands with our relatives around a table laden with food. We experience Thanksgiving differently. I have asked others who are grieving, who have no family left, how they spend their holidays. Some hole up with a book, some stay under the covers in bed. Others go for a walk, watch movies, work, clean house––whatever it takes to endure the day, to get through it, to be thankful it is over. Some, those whose grief is not so new, fresh, raw, join with other "only" people, those who have no family, and celebrate the day. Someday that will be me. I look forward to that.

Colby's passing is a good reminder that some people celebrate holidays in non-traditional ways, not because they want to, but because, for them, there is no other choice. 

Labor

Today is Labor Day. It's a hard day for me because it is the first "holiday" without Colby. Traditionally, Colby and I drove around Nashville sometime on Labor Day weekend and visited all the places we once lived. There are eight former homes spread from Kingston Springs (about 20 miles west of Nashville) into Nashville itself. The drive usually took an entire afternoon and we'd always stop somewhere and eat, sharing memories of the various houses and events that took place in them.

All weekend I debated making the drive myself and finally I decide I am not ready. I'd feel Colby's loss too painfully. I'd cry the entire time. I realize that with Colby gone I have no one to share these memories with and I cry anyway. The crying gives way to irritation, with me, with life, with nothing in particular, so I go into my backyard and begin pulling down vines that have engulfed the line of trees at the back of the lot. Since Colby passed, I haven't done much yard work and I pull vines with vengeance. Vines down, I attack branches with clippers and saw, then spot clumps of iris that need dividing, so I dig. Finally, I hack several low gardening stools together from some scrap wood and paint them. By this time it is long past dark.

Now I sit and write. I try not to shake because after the shaking comes the crying. I take deep breaths and concentrate on the letters that appear on the screen. I must stay busy; I must not think. I am grateful that today's holiday is a small one. It was good practice for Colby's birthday (September 30), and the bigger holidays coming up this fall: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I must plan major projects for those days. Big projects with lots of physical labor that will take me from sunrise to the day's end. I hear that the first holidays are the worst. I got through this one. Somehow I will get through the rest.