holidays and grief: year 2

Two years ago right now Andy and I were in Miami for the weekend finding a place to live and signing paperwork for a last-ditch-effort clinical trial that we hoped would save his life.  (Spoiler alert: it didn't).  

We had just spent a raucaus Thanksgiving weekend with his family in Minneapolis and had left the kids behind with sweet friends who totally pampered and indulged them while we were gone so that they wouldn't have to think too hard about the upheaval coming their way.

We sent them goofy pictures from the hospital campus, to bring comfort and try to bridge the gap of fear they must have been holding in their hearts.

And by the time Christmas rolled around we were settled into a sun-drenched bungalow.  Andy's new treatment would mercifully start right after Christmas, so we were full of hope, and fear and the newness of Christmas without snow.  We embraced it, Andy's parents and brother were with us and we opened gifts, and tried them out and spent Christmas afternoon on the beach!  It all felt strange, and uncomfortable, but new and exciting too.  And most of all we had eachother.

For all the holidays we celebrated with our children, Andy and I tried hard to put the focus on family, on giving and on togetherness.  But still there was always the consumerism, the expectations, the stress of getting the right gift for the right person, making sure family was satisfied with enough time with the grandkids, yet carving out space for our own traditions. There were occasional awkward family converstaions, crabby kids, too much time in the car, too much sugar and tv and plastic crap.  You know the gig.
But through it all Andy and I were a team, we always had eachother's back.  We had a shared holiday philosphy and could roll our eyes over the kids heads when one grandparent or the other sabotaged it. Getting through the holidays was a mix of joy and tension.  But at the end of the day we could take a deep breath, share with eachother the shining moments and know that we'd pulled another one off.  We got 12 of those with the kids.  Twelve shining stressful holiday seasons.

And then last year I was on my own.  In a fog, supported by so many.  I don't have a single photo from Christmas day last year.  I'm not even sure where I was.  We limped through, knowing it was hard, expecting tears, everyone holding us gently.  It was all raw, and I missed him the same as every other day.

And now we have arrived at holiday-season-year-two.  It feels different in many ways.  We have a routine, the three of us.  We've fallen into some comfort without him. I am dating a wonderful man.  (oh yes, so much to tell) But as I face the holidays I realize that this year may be harder yet.  Harder than last when the fog was still thick and everyone was still so aware of our grief.  There was grace around everything we did because, shit, we were grieving!  Now I need to step up to some obligations I let go last year.  I need to make this a sweet holiday for the girls (advent calendars and christmas trees, cookie making, and gift buying for teachers, stockings for the new kittens (of course), and travel to see friends and family afar).  All the holiday things that I weathered with him all those 12 years, I need to weather on my own.  There will be no co-parent catching my eye when the youngest girl steals another cookie from the table, there will be no loving look that says "you are tired, let's get out of here", there will be no sharing of the chores and joys that come with making a holiday bright for our children.  And that feels lonely.  Big lonely.

Why am I recording this?  I'm not sure.  Because it's part of the path.  Part of the healing.  Part of the moving forward.  I'm pretty good at putting a shiny spin on darkness because I truly do carry inside myself a spark of light.  Thank goodness.  But today there is just this: a month ahead of holiday festivities and a grief that will forever shadow our hearts.