Jenny: It’s the first full year without my dad, which makes my heart hurt. And then one of my dogs, Geddy, goes and dies. Well, he got hurt first, and there was a lot of pain, and he was kind of old and not a great candidate for surgery, and we tried to manage his pain but it didn’t work, and we had to make one of those horrible decisions. So my heart hurts even more than it did. My dad always used to ask about my dogs. That was really the only line between them. But he knew how much I loved them, and I know he’d be sad that we lost one. My other dog has let me bury my face in his sweet-smelling fur when I’m hurting inside over my dad and about Geddy. Dogs are so sweet that way. Mourning my dad and my dog are different but the same. They hit the same place in my heart, even if one was a monumental person in my life and one was a furry couch potato who made me laugh and was a daily friend. I miss them both in visceral ways and in subtle ones. The holidays don’t really change anything in this for me. Sad is sad, with or without Xmas cookies. Cold, gray weather, though, that can exacerbate the sadness for sure. I’ll be better when the sun is on my face again.
Cameron: This is a memory from years ago, but the year after my dad died the rest of us went to Kauai for Christmas, thinking it would be fun to start a new tradition, or at least be less reminded of his absence. I think I am the only person in the world who does not have happy, golden memories of Kauai. It was horrible. (The trip, that is. I know Kauai is a lovely place. I just shouldn’t have been there stumbling around with my family, all of us wearing grief goggles.)
Ann: I do so dislike this time of year. It’s what Cameron said: I know for a lot, a lot, of people it’s a lovely time and I don’t begrudge them one atom of it; but I shouldn’t be stumbling around these sweet holidays wearing grief goggles. No choice though. The anniversaries of my son’s birth and death come in late November and early January, and those of my husband’s birth and death in mid-January. Like, January, leave me alone please, also Christmas please. Grief goggles see the present through the past which is now full of loss. Grief goggles darken and dim everything you see through them. Grief goggles, you miss the person so much that nothing means anything and what? you want me to miss them less? I don’t feel sorry for myself, I do feel sorry for my son especially. I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy. It’s just the way it is, this is what life is like. And a whole lot of people could have written exactly this, we’re not alone here.
Helen: This is my first Christmas without any parents, and honestly right now I think it’s going to be fine. “Fine” of course includes a lot of things: grief, loss confusion, as I try to figure out how to do my favorite holiday without being in that place with those people and the right music and foods. But it includes joy and beauty, too. I’m writing this while cramming carrot sticks into my mouth on my short break between two performances of the Christmas Revels, a show I’m in. I’m surrounded by friends, putting on a show that embraces the joys and the sorrows of the season, new life and losses, the dark and the light. The shortest day has come and gone and maybe the new year will be fine.
Craig: Christmas has ghosts, no way around it. I like to bring them back for the holidays. My dad died decades ago and I celebrate him by singing lewd versions of Christmas carols he liked to invent. On decoration night, I continue his tradition of weird foods, laying out persimmon, salted duck eggs, braunschweiger, smoked oysters, stinky cheese, olives, etc. Grief after long enough becomes a way of remembering. I don’t cry anymore, not about his passing at least. Tears have turned into celebrations, it just took a while.
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Photos:
By Fred Kruger/ Adam Cuerden – https://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/explore/collection/work/8829/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=143574456
By Arthur Rothstein – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs divisionunder the digital ID ppmsc.00241.This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6241057