Sixteen Christmases into my second life in this body… those of you who have experienced a significant loss know exactly what that means, don’t you? Those of you who haven’t, well, sorry, but there really is no way to explain it. Anyway, that is what this year is. The sixteenth Christmas without Jason’s physical big footed self lying on our couch. And I am surprised that after this much practice, I can’t seem to find the spirit of Christmas anywhere near our home.
I have the music playing, in our house, in my truck, on the radio, in my head. No tingly chills on the back of my neck though. Not even with the chestnuts song. I made my shopping list, checked it twice, and still no urge to hit the stores and fill the cart. I have watched A Christmas Carol three times already and it is only a week into December. No visions of sugarplums, or cravings for fudge, cookies, or the only once a year divinity. I’ve even decorated, well, sort of . . . some things anyway. Uh-Oh. I think I’ve stumbled upon part of the problem. I have decorated Jason’s grave. I have celebrated Jason’s December birthday. I have lit Jason’s candles at the cemetery, at his park, and at our house. I have planned the Jason part of our Christmas. But there is no tree in our living room and no gifts to be wrapped. I think by doing so much for Jason, I have pushed myself into that pit again. Not entirely over the lip into a free fall, but I’m definitely clamoring for a foothold.
So what gives? What did I do wrong this year? I always include Jason in our holidays. I encourage anyone who has lost someone to do the same. Set a place at the table, light a candle, buy a gift in their name, whatever WORKS. This is nothing new. Or is it? In years past, have I not also taken care of myself? Have I not forced myself to breathe in the cold air when the first snow falls on a dark December night? What about the drives to search for yard displays? What about the daylong search for a perfect tree? And then there were the stockings, and the angels, and the ornaments from Christmases past. This year they’re still in the attic. Instead of pushing me to remember the love, their absence was pulling me into a void where fear of an empty emotionless holiday tugged at my heart. This year, I wasn’t doing what WORKS. I was only doing what I thought I should do.