Ghosts of Christmas Past

Dear Mom,

There is a brand new baby in our family. Landon is here – which I am confident you know.

With Landon here and the realities of hearing about caring for a newborn, the sleepless nights, the feedings, I am reminded of what so many people say about babies so frequently, and that is:

It goes by so fast. The days are long, but the years are short.

People often also say, what they wouldn't do to go back to those baby days, even with the sleepless nights.

I think we all as humans have trouble when we are in the thick of the, “days are long, but the years are short” stages of life. It is so hard to lean into the hard. It can be so hard to see that there will indeed be an end to these hard days and nights. Sometimes you just want it to be over, because it is just so hard.

Now I of course don’t know this from personal experience of having a baby yet – but – I do know that the end with you was so similar to the emotional, physical, and mental demands of a newborn.

In the end with you, other people who I know who had lost their Moms, they ALL told me to just stay in the moment, that it won’t last forever, and that I will never regret spending as much time with you as possible. Because once you’re gone…you’re gone forever.

It is kind of like the newborn stage.

Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

We yearn for chubby cheeks and tiny toes, and can only access these moments in our memories and photos.

--

In recent weeks, I have transitioned to a phase of just really wanting to see you. Like, really badly wanting and needing to see you.

What I wouldn't give to go back and give you just one more hug. One more kiss. To tell you that I love you one more time.

In the final few weeks of your life, it was hard. Really, really hard. Not just for me, but for you and for all of us. There were times when I admit, I was ready for it to be over.

Of course “it” being the caretaking of a dying person and not of your life. But, they were of course one and the same.

Because you were sick for so long, and I had so much time to mourn, so many people said I would probably feel relief when you died.

I didn't. I never have.

It has been six months today since I sat by your side and held your hand for one last time.

Six months since I studied your face, held your cold hand to my cheek.

Six months since I told you that I didn't know what I was going to do without you.

How can it possible have been half a year since you died?

It feels like an eternity has elapsed since you died and yet no time at all.

My life has shifted in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

Going through life without your Mom is hard.

I think back to myself in your final few months. I sometimes lost my patience. There were times I sat on my phone. Sometimes it was just too hard for me to face.

I think back to those days and wish I had just snuggled you in bed, or held your hand more.

I wanted to do these things, but it often upset you so much because you knew it was because you were dying. And of course when you cried, you couldn’t breathe.

"Love is a word much too soft
and used far too often
to ever describe the fierce,
infinite and blazing agony that
I feel in my heart for you."

-Beau Taplin

I have a constant ache in the center of my chest that wants to just hug you and tell you how much I miss you and love you.

I am constantly aware of your absence.

It truly feels like I’ve lost a limb.

Or more like a part of my lungs or heart.

This life without you is hard. So hard.

--

It is Christmas Eve. I have dreaded this season.

In order to attempt to wring some joy out of this season, I made a “Holiday Bucketlist.” It has been helpful to remind me to seek the joy, that it is easier to do than I think.

One of those items was to watch Christmas movies, including Little Women, The Family Stone, and Stepmom (which I consider a Christmas movie).

Some may think I am a masochist, watching movies about people dying that will undoubtedly make me cry.

But, my counselor said something that really resonated with me. She said I probably do it because I need a framework in which I can actively process my grief, with situations and stories that I can relate to. And I have to say, they have been deeply cathartic experiences for me.

But don’t get me wrong, those movies have made me cry heavy and heaving sobs – I’ve watched Little Women and The Family Stone and absolutely balled my eyes out.

I haven’t gotten to Stepmom yet – just too hard.

 There is a scene in the Family Stone, when the oldest daughter, very pregnant, tiptoes into her Mom’s room and finds her napping. She crawls into bed with her and wraps her arm around her. In that moment, they both know –

She is dying and they are taking in as much of each other as they can.

I so wish I did more of that.

But I also know that hindsight is 20/20. Everyone can look back at things with rose colored glasses. Very few mothers in the throws of sleepless nights and dealing with a postpartum body will be all rainbows and butterflies.

I am trying to come to terms with the times that I sometimes checked out with you in your final months. It is a long and hard process for me. I still haven’t written about your last night – just too painful to touch yet.

--

Landon is here, you have a second grandbaby. He has provided such a needed balm to us all during this holiday season. He is also a stark reminder to us all that life is going on –

Without you.

I knew that being at Jennifer’s birth would be difficult emotionally – probably for both of us.

There were times in her labor that were just SO hard. And she did so well. But there were moments that I know she needed and wanted you.

I have seen lots of women bring babies into this world, and every single one of them at some point has wanted or asked for their mom.

I tried to mother her as best as I could. As you would have done. So, I swept her hair off of her forehead and I gave her sips of water and told her she could do it. I thought about you so much that day. There were times that I felt so sure you were there.

Right before Landon was born, the doctor asked Jennifer where big brother was. Shyawn responded that he was with his Mom. She then asked Jennifer if our parents were local.

Jennifer froze and couldn’t say anything. One tear dripped down her face.

I said, through a tight throat, that our Mom had just died recently.

The room fell silent.

My most favorite photo of you <3

 I grabbed Jennifer’s hand and held it.

I could feel the tears coming hard and fast, but I knew in that moment it wasn’t about me and I needed to pull my shit together.

I told myself to dig deep and swallowed hard.

I put my camera up to my eye to give myself something more technical to focus on.

I shot my camera with one hand and held her hand in the other.

It is what you would have done.

Shortly after Landon was born, I called Dad to tell him he was here.

In the hallway by the elevators, I finally broke down.

I told him through chocked tears that you should be here and that I just missed you so much. He told me that maybe you are there, we never know.

We shortly thereafter got off the phone, said we loved each other, and I called Cris.

The situation repeated itself.

I eventually hung up with Cris and tried to pull my shit together as I walked back down the hall.

I failed miserably and Shyawn, and then Jennifer, both knew I had been crying.

Jennifer looked at me and I just said, “I am sad about Mom.”

She nodded in understanding, and looked down at that perfect little baby.

I stood there and stroked his arm as the tears fell down and Shyawn rubbed my back.

It was a silent moment for us all to recognize the elephant in the room –

There is someone who should be here, who isn’t.

I later told Landon that his Grandma would have called him “beh-beh” just like she did with his brother. And so I called him that, in your voice, and tried to channel you as best as possible.

--

Dad came to the hospital the next day, and I was there at the same time.

He held and cuddled the new little baby for a long time. Much longer than when Hudson was born.

Over the next few days, I started to really think about mothering, and what it looks like when you don’t have one anymore, but still need one.

How I still need you and don’t have you. How I still need mothering.

I think we all are leaning in and taking on different roles that you played. I think we will all learn to mother each other in our own ways.

Dad has and will continue to mother us.

He helped clean up Hudson’s toys in preparation for Christmas. Something a Mom might help her newly postpartum daughter with. But you’re not around to do that, so he has stepped in.

After Hudson was born, you brought Jennifer lots of food for quite a long time. Such a motherly thing to do. While I was baking for Christmas, I decided to make Jennifer a potato casserole she likes and her favorite, cherry pie. It seemed like something you would do and comfort food that a postpartum person would like. A motherly gesture.

I had been baking all day. I hadn’t been upset or emotional all day, which surprised me. Sometimes my lack of grief surprises me just as much as my profound grief. I was fine all day, that is until I started rolling the dough out for the cherry pie. I used your rolling pin again, it just feels so good to have something that you touched in my hands.

I tried to crimp the edges of the pie and did not do well. I kept thinking about how you did it, and how you would have made fun of me, telling me it was “oooglay” and laugh. I laughed and cried throughout it. I thought about the letter pancakes you used to make us when we were kids. I thought you would want the pie to be pretty, so out of extra crust I made a "J" and cut out hearts around it.

When I made her casserole and measured out the 2 cups of cheese the recipe called for, I heard your voice so distinctly in my mind, “It needs more cheeser. Mmmm cheeeseeeey.”

I laughed and added a generous fistful.

You are in everything I do.

--

I sent a text to Dad, Jennifer, and Michael the day before Landon was born, and said that I was having a really hard time and just missed you so much and that Christmas was making it so much harder.

Dad replied that this Christmas was going to be a hard one for all of us, and that he loved me.

People tell me that this one – The First Christmas – will be the hardest. That it will always be hard, particularly at this time of year, but this one will be the hardest, the most painful.

I’ve been crying a lot in the last few weeks, and Cris often wants to know if he can do anything to help. The other day I told him I just need to feel the feels.

I need to lean into the hurt that I have and not turn away from it. I know that this phase of my life, this intensely painful, gut wrenching ache I have, that it won’t always be this way. I know that. I think I know that.

Like the newborn phase, I know that the days are long, but the years are short.

I will head into Christmas and know it will be hard. I will cry, just like I did at Thanksgiving. I will cry often and many times without warning.

Your absence is in everything.

But so is your love.

I recently read the following quote that gave words to what I experience daily:

“Grief is part of who I am now. It lives in the very bones of me…but so does love.”

Memories of Christmas past with you are a part of our traditions, our stories, and our rituals. And they always will be.

So I will lean into the hurt, try to honor you as best as I can, and will snuggle a brand new baby when it hurts just a little too much.

And I will call him behbeh and tell him that he has a Grandma who would have, and does, love him so much.

--

On the winter solstice, a friend on Facebook posted this quote:

“The shortest day and the longest night.

Now the light will return, bit by bit.

Winter is just beginning and although it may feel endless, spring will come.”

It feels endless, but with time, all things change. The light will return.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.