Oftentimes, it’s difficult to know what to write in these columns. I have moments of inspiration, sure. I keep a running list of topics on my phone’s notepad in case of sudden onset topic syndrome, those middle of the night moments where my eyes fly open at 3 am and I shout, “That would make a great column!” But there are times, especially around the holidays, where I don’t want inspiration. Caring or sharing are not ideas I welcome. I just want warm tea, Earl Grey, preferably, extremely soft socks, my pj pants that look like sweats but are 2 sizes too big, and my memories. I want to curl up in the arm of my couch with my favorite throw blanket and a down pillow, Poe the rescue Dachshund in my lap, and 2 big poodles in the floor. I want the television on, only for background noise. I want to sip tea, let the tears stream down my face, and think about my only daughter and how, no matter how many different ways I try and spin the story, she isn’t coming home for Christmas. And, while it’s probably not the column you wanted from me this week, it’s the one you’re getting. Because, Christmas ain’t for sissies.
I know four people who’ve recently lost a child. They range in age from a few weeks old to a college freshman. The why factor shouldn’t be important, but it always is. So, I’ll tell you. There was a congenital birth defect, a case of childhood cancer, and two car accidents. In all cases, this will be the first holiday season where 4 sets of parents, maybe some stepparents, multiple siblings, sets upon sets of grandparents, cousins, friends, and communities will celebrate without these 4 precious souls. It’s hard when you miss people at Christmas. It’s hell when it’s a child. There is something about world order that is completely upended when a child dies. Babies are supposed to grow up and have babies of their own and take care of us elderly parents during our end days. When we outlive them, however, it’s like a bad Jenga move. That block on the bottom was definitely not supposed to be pulled out until the end. But, here we are, toppled over, upended, destroyed. Bereaved parents are eternal Humpty-Dumpties. You can dispatch as many of the king’s horses and men as you’d like. Our pieces have scattered too far to ever be reassembled. And, so, lest I seem inconsolable, I say to you, let it go. Grieving parents of the world, unite. Get your cozy beverage and your softest pajamas and your best throw blanket and call in sick one day. It’s time to commiserate.
Normally, this is where I would tell everyone else the best way to help a grieving parent during the holidays: what to say, what not to say, etc. This time, I just want to talk to all the other parents out there who’ve lost a child. It matters not whether your child was an infant or had children of their own or was even nearing retirement age. From the moment we find out a baby is coming into our lives, we begin planning. Before my first child was born, I could see his entire life already. Granted, I thought son Dillan was going to be named Brook Ashleigh, but whatever. We didn’t get sonograms back then. Still, I could see it! I would dream about childhood accomplishments and adult rites of passage. I could see weddings and grandchildren and proms and graduations. It was all there, just at our fingertips. And, I was right. It was as wonderful as I dreamed it would be. Until, one day, poof, my 3rd child was gone, disappeared into the night. I looked everywhere for guidance, or maybe I looked nowhere, I don’t recall. None was to be found. There wasn’t a guidebook on how to handle the holidays when one of your children dies. Collapse mode was fun for a while, but it doesn’t bode well for your remaining children. So, I created my own map. Like a modernday explorer, I hacked through my immense grief with a machete, looking for gold, or a new land, or just a place to stop and rest. And, what I came up with, after 13 years of trial and error, was a series of rules that has served me well. I’d like to share them with you.
You will always feel the grief, especially this time of year. If you ignore it, the grief will grow, doubling in size each night, until it rolls through your life like The Blob from the 1958 movie. The only way to keep it in check is to acknowledge it and deal accordingly. I recommend crying, really hard, ugly, crying. Find yourself a private place and set a time parameter. Do you need an hour, a day, an entire weekend? Just set a start time and an end time. “I will grieve and grieve better than anyone ever grieved in the history of grief. But, when it’s time to stop, I will.” Next, stop being overly critical of yourself. I tend to overpromise during the holidays. I learned my lesson. It’s not the time to commit to extra projects or to offer hosting a party or to volunteer to make all the desserts. It’s time to stand up for yourself and say, “Hey, I’m sure you understand this is a rough time of year for me. Just put me down for one casserole and I’ll be happy to bring all the paper plates.” Finally, find your joy anywhere you can. At the end of each night, think of a situation where you did a great job. Maybe it’s a near miss nervous breakdown you skirted. Maybe it was finding your daughter’s favorite ornament, the polaroid picture one from her BFF’s 90s Christmas party where she’s sitting in Santa’s lap wearing Doc Marten boots. Maybe you kissed her little cherubic face before you placed it on the tree and, instead of screaming and throwing the 80s set of Christmas village houses against the wall like you wanted, you just took a deep breath and thanked God for loaning her to you for 16 amazing years. Whatever daily accomplishment you choose to reflect on, close your eyes, lower your vibration, and say these words. “I am awesome. I am amazing. I am worthy of a beautiful holiday season. I can do this.” Know that, regardless how the holidays feel, you are never alone.
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