Dark Rainbows Through the Holidays

Christmas is right around the corner and I keep trying and trying to write something I’m comfortable posting. Write something that doesn’t depress the shit out of anyone who reads it. Write something that doesn’t sound like complete fluff to anyone who has any idea what grieving around the holidays actually looks like. Spoiler: it’s a mess. I have been wanting to write about the holidays and the new traditions created and the ways we remember their dad this time of year, but wanting to throw in the positive spin and wanting to produce something that can be tied up in a pretty bow has stopped me from writing anything at all.

When I have a mental block or hesitation with my writing I always think back to one of my professors who made me rewrite a research paper, because “you are a natural writer, so I can tell when you’re not using your own voice.” So while I really wanted to write a post about all the new traditions the boys and I have started since Matt has died, today isn’t the time. We have made new traditions. We do remember the man of our house in several ways each holiday, but writing about the cookies we bake and the gifts we give and the pajamas we wear seems trite when I know there are so many out there who feel pinned to their bed or their couch or wherever they may be. They feel heavy and broken and unable to bake the cookies and read the cards or unable to face the absence of all those things because their person is no longer here.

I find myself thinking of the many widows and widowers I’ve connected with over the past year, mostly through social media and several directly from this blog, and I wonder how they are doing each day. I wonder how the holidays are treating them this year. I know that whether they lost their spouse last week or twenty years ago, they’re hurting a little extra this time of year. And I know that’s happening because I was there. Because I am here. And even more than all the pretty little things the boys and I do to include their dad, we simply miss him. They miss having him home to be lazy with on rainy days. To laugh with and wrestle with. I miss having him here to help with all the holiday prep. To help me with the Santa duties. I miss having him to talk to while we wrap gifts together and having someone to answer the ongoing questions that children throw at you all day long while I cook whatever dish we decide to make for whatever holiday we happen to be celebrating.

And while we (the grieving) all take a little bit back piece by piece as the years go on, those pieces are different sizes for each of us. And they often come back warped and misshapen. And so we share memes and we post quotes and we listen to one another and we relate. We empathize. We support.

To narrow it even more, the past few days I continue to think of the handful of widows I’ve recently connected with that are facing their first holidays without their spouse and my heart breaks for them. It breaks because I don’t have encouraging words about how it gets better. This is my second holiday season and I find it heavier than the first. Reality has officially set in and it’s a lonely time of year. I think of the widows with young children facing their first solo Santa venture. And that’s all I can do—think. I simply think of them and try to send out whatever strength I have to spare their way, but I don’t have anything refreshing to say. I understand how excruciating the moments are, how much effort they are putting in for their little ones, and I just think of them and applaud them from afar.

My first holiday season, from Halloween to the New Year, I decorated for each one and made sure we did something exciting to keep the joy alive. This year I only decorated for Christmas and kept half my decorations in the box. I put some window decals on our front door yesterday and felt pretty accomplished. The moment I’m truly dreading this year is the silent night between placing the presents under the tree and falling asleep, and I wonder if it’ll sneak up on them like it did me.

Last year I created the tradition of wearing matching Christmas pajamas all day and going to the movies and having dinner there while still in our pjs. Subconsciously I think I started that to have the lowest maintenance holiday I could muster without it being too obvious. But it worked out, because my kids say it’s their favorite holiday tradition. We can be comfortable and not have to put on a happy face or whatever face the crowd is wanting from us that day and just be. Be happy or be sad or be tense or be whatever it is that we are that day.

So I listen to the newly widowed, newer than myself, and I hear the added stress from having to please family members and I remember feeling that way, too. And I also hear the added stress of wanting to do all they can to make their kids lives change as little as possible and I still feel that way, too.

I miss my kids having pure happiness. I miss them believing that their mom and dad will always be right here with them. I miss the days when every celebration wasn’t laced in somber sadness. There’s a veil of grief that lays down on top of everything and I can’t take it away. I can’t save my children from feeling that way. While I can help them cope with it, I can’t ever erase it. I cannot carry it for them, even when I do my best to help them unload it.

And so I tell the ones seeking advice what I tell myself—give yourself grace and allow whatever feelings your feeling to flow.

In my personal experience, not many others are going to give you that grace so you have to give it to yourself. And that’s fine. Not many people understand that when we’re quietly hanging a wreath we’re screaming inside. And even when we try to focus on the small beams of light, they are often so dim we’re still standing in the dark. And that’s okay. I didn’t understand until I began living it. While I always had empathy, I may not have always shown it.

And so we celebrate. We paint ornaments. We bake cookies. We bake daddy’s favorite cookies. We hang our stockings. We go out and look at the pretty lights. And someone is crying by night. It’s difficult to explain and people may say we’re “lamenting” or being “consumed” by grief and not letting it go. I say we’re just feeling. So this year I don’t have a jolly and happy post about the things we create to honor their dad. We do them. And it hurts. But it feels good at the same time. It hurts because he’s gone. It hurts because this is what we have to do to include him. It feels good because in this moment we happily remember him. In this moment we remember his laugh and his smile and his witty banter. And we laugh together to the thought of it all. And it feels so good that it’s worth the hurt. It’s worth it because the hurt will be there whether we laugh or cry.

And then I tuck my boys in bed with their stuffed animals, notebooks, T-shirts and whatever it is they need that night; and I take a sigh of relief that we got through the day. I then quickly wonder how I’m going to get through tomorrow. And I wonder how I’ll get through the upcoming holiday. But then I remember that I got through today. And so many others in a similar position as me got through today. And as much as I wish there weren’t so many out there grieving along with me, I am so thankful we were able to find one another. As distant as we may all be, I carry them close with me. And everyday, we will each continue to get through whatever day—as simple and complicated as it may be.