I’ve been throwing stuff into the…what do I call that room? The study? The guest suite? Lisa’s room? Whatever. To keep my house reasonably uncluttered while accumulating gifts, wrapping them, and other such holiday nonsense, everything gets thrown in there and the door closed to keep out snooping dogs. This doesn’t please Margot, because the crates are in that room, and she loves her crate.
Over the past couple of weeks, Tom brought in what boxes remained of my mother’s Christmas decorations. There weren’t many, but I wanted to split them for the grandkids. (My brother, sister, and I divided the first round of decorations many years ago when my mother got sick of moving them.) I won’t lie; this was hard. When we packed up all her other belongings and gave away, donated, or sold them, she was still alive. Since then, there was a time when I went through the rest of her clothes and donated them. But that was months ago.
You really can’t dodge grief, and you also can’t anticipate when it will become sharper. Thanksgiving was fine, even though I could clearly remember Mother going to Green Acres with us last year (when I took all those BBQ Frito Thanksgiving photos). But it was Christmas Eve when Tom and I had to take her to the hospital, the visit that led to her cancer diagnosis. Though I’m not consciously thinking of anything that’s upsetting me, I know my ongoing insomnia is related to mourning. And when I burst into tears driving down the road because “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” starts playing–well, it’s not because I’m tired of Christmas music. Except for when I’ve worked retail, I like Christmas music.
Sometimes I believe we were smarter about mourning in the old days (no matter what Scarlett O’Hara thought). We were allowed to withdraw. Less was expected of us. We gave ourselves time to be alone, to think, to remember, to grieve. Nobody has patience in today’s world for the contemplative spirit. We have to move fast, drive fast, work fast, recover fast. There’s noise around us all the time.
That’s the life I consciously and gradually stepped back from over the past ten years, and in this busiest of seasons, I keep reminding myself of that. I don’t mind being sad. I don’t mind crying. I prefer to do it in solitude, and I’m not talking about it here because I want sympathy. I’m talking about it because I know friends who are also coping with losses who may need a gentle reminder that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to miss him or her. It’s okay to feel a little lost sometimes. I’ll never forget the wisdom someone gave to me after my father died: The depth of your sorrow is equal to the depth of your love.
Instead of pretending everything’s fine, I decided to get control of that room. I bought a small tree and decorated it with some of my mother’s decorations, many of which were gifts from me. I organized everything that still needs wrapping so I can work in there tomorrow, in a clear space, with a decorated tree and its twinkling lights, and two dogs who are thrilled to get their cozy crates back. And we will have ourselves a merry little Christmas now.
I remember my first Christmas without Dad. I was prepping to quit my job and move to Lexington where I knew only one person. I am a firm believer in multiple Christmas trees.
There are probably times most of us could use an entire forest of Christmas trees! Two will do for now. =)
Wow, I’ll say it again, what a testament to your mother you are. Reading your insights made me think once again what a splendid human being she was to have shaped the splendid individual you are my dear. Beautiful.
treebreeze, i think you said it best. 🙂
Thank you, Jandy. =)
Thank you, as always, for the kind things you say.
Cancer
When Sam was diagnosed, we built an apartment for him in Randy’s basement. After that, on the way to visit my parents, I almost drove over a police man trying to direct traffic away from a hidden accident in the dip of the hills. It’s hard to cry and drive at the same time. (Sam died June 21 2002, almost a year and a half later.) The world was like a battle zone for a week or so after the funeral.
~hugs~
Re: Cancer
I tend to cry when I drive because I’m alone. I’m sure there are times people in other cars worry that I’ll drive over them!
I’m sorry for your loss. Healing can take a long time, can’t it?
Re: Cancer
Yeah… a long time. But I have been in other relationships since, so it wasn’t the end of the world :). Memories seem more happier now.
Thank you for your insights, and *hugs* just because.
Thank YOU, for your words and the hugs.
Lisa’s room?
Harrumph. And don’t think I’ve forgotten the gift basket.
🙂 May the New Year bring nothing but success and joy.
Hey, don’t forget that the sheets were already on my bed, too, Greg!
Instigator!
Thank you–much success and joy to you, too. I’m sorry you never got a gift basket, and to make up for it, you can totally wash all my windows. Inside and out. Because I’m a giver. =)
I’m with Jandy, I think that Todd said it best.
*BIG HUG!!*
Thanks, Lisa. =)
There have been several times that you have posted something that I relate to so closely that it is almost stunning.
Your post has put words to some feelings that cropped up from the ether, for me and it does help to remember that it is okay to cry.
Just yesterday – I found myself thinking about how much my father would love something that I saw whilst Christmas shopping. I picked it up, viewed the price – and took it to the counter to purchase it.
“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” came on (which is my favourite Holiday song) and – it hit me, once again. Every so often I think about Dad in the fashion that he is still here, physically, with us. Dad died (from cancer) almost two and a half years ago. The icon that I’ve decorated this post with is from a picture that I took whilst visiting him in Alaska … the visit during which we found out that he would not be making it, after all.
I am a firm believer that one needs to grieve in the manner (and timing) of their own choosing. *hugs* Always, always take the time that you need and be gentle with yourself.
You are treasured.
Your room looks absolutely stunning. It is surely a reflection of the beauty found within the room’s decorator – and her lovely mother.
She is always here in spirit, honey. You’ve certainly inherited her warmth, sensitivity and her heart…
*HUGS*
(Yesterday – I had figured that Dad was sort of shopping through me. So he still “got” the comical t’shirt that I had selected for him… I couldn’t bear to leave something so very Him there in the store. Started crying the second I was leaving the store with it – but a wise friend has said that it is okay to cry… and it is. Thank-you for that reminder, hon).
Blessings be yours, always.
*Hugs*
~C.
You know the original lyrics to that song are sadder than the ones we hear today. Even changed, it has a bittersweet mood to it. And that, really, is grief, isn’t it? Love and loss together.
One of the stories I often tell is from when my friend Steve R was dying. I always tried to be upbeat around him, because I knew he counted on that. One day, he was asleep while I stood next to his hospital bed, and I couldn’t help but cry. Even though I did it quietly so as not to wake him, my tears fell on his hand, and he opened his eyes. When I gasped out an apology for crying, he told me that it would make him so sad to think that no one would ever cry for him.
We honor them with our tears. We show that they mattered and still matter. We note their loss and absence. How could that be anything but an act of love–just as much as the laughter you shared with your father yesterday out of something that would amuse him, too.
*hugs*
Thank you. =)
It’s the “Catch-all Room”, silly!
I’ve loved the various posts about your mom. I wondered from time to time how you were doing with the death of your mommy. I’m learning myself that the first Christmas without somebody you love is really hard.
Nobody has patience in today’s world for the contemplative spirit. We have to move fast, drive fast, work fast, recover fast. There’s noise around us all the time.
Oh, don’t even get me started! It’s absolutely absurd how ridiculously Type A our society as a whole has become. You simply can’t get through to some people that the best thing you can do sometimes is be contemplative, to reflect, to rest. I’ve learned that you really need to have the courage to stand up for what you feel is right for you, instead of having somebody shove down your throat about how you should act because a bunch of people agreed that it’s ‘normal’ to adopt some goofy, absurd idea about how to live.
It’s interesting you should say all of this, because that’s exactly the concept I’m working on now for a novel–a Type A person who is forced to slow down after a tremendous loss.
I wonder at people who give other people a timetable for grief. Have they never experienced a profound loss? A friend was once told by his manager after his life partner’s death, “It’s been six weeks. It’s time for you to move on.”
Six WEEKS?!? I understand that a person might need counseling if sustained grief interferes with the normal activities of his life, but I think six weeks to get over someone’s death may be pushing it a bit!
I find it depressing that I’m no longer surprised when I hear stories like this, even if I’m still as outraged.
One reason this story gets me mad is because that manager is acting like he’s giving that advice for your friend’s own good, when in reality all he’s concerned with is your friend continuing to be a good worker bee so his partner’s death doesn’t affect his productivity. What an asshole. That manager is lucky he didn’t get decked across his snotty little face.
I’m really glad you’re thinking about exploring this issue in your fiction. In my novel I’m currently revising, that’s definitely one of the ideas I explore. We are NOT machines. We are humans with emotions who need to recharge and take time out. We’re not designed to just be productive indefinitely, even in the face of grief or other losses.
I realized that in professional situations, you really have to look out for yourself, because as what happened with your friend, your bosses aren’t necessarily looking out for your welfare. Often their motivations is just getting you to do what they want.
It’s been too long since I’ve said it. It’s like warm weather– as much as I love it, I love being able to take it for granted; it’s a luxury!
You are a fabulous writer.
Thank you. You are welcome to say it often. =)
::Hugs::
Thank you. Hugs from you are nice even when I can’t feel the baby kick!
“It’s okay to miss him or her. It’s okay to feel a little lost sometimes. I’ll never forget the wisdom someone gave to me after my father died: The depth of your sorrow is equal to the depth of your love.”
Words of wisdom, indeed – thank you.
Oh the dogs look so cosy . . . almost as if they “know” what you have planned for that room.
Thank YOU. We did hang out in there today, but I didn’t get much done. And that’s okay, too!
The longer and more I get to know you, the more I start to love you.
It’s been 14 yrs now since my dad died. Still every year at this time when the Charlie Brown Christmas stuff starts cropping up, or I hear certain carols, I get weepy.
And ya know, it’s funny, but the other day, just when I needed a little Merry, I found a pair of Christmas earrings in some stuff that I’d brought back from my little Nana’s house, the Christmas right after she’d died. I don’t remember ever seeing them before.
Your mother must have been a truly beautiful person :0)
I love those little discoveries and moments that remind us our spirits are still linked with those we’ve lost. Death has absolutely NO power to steal love from us.
And your words are so kind. Thank you.
You know, I had missed that your mom died. I guess it was when I was offline last year, doing the move from hell; I missed many things last year.
I’m sorry for your loss, and your grief. I think remembering and doing things in one’s own time is a good thing. I’m still a human doing instead of a human being, and I don’t like that state of being. So I wish you peace, and contemplating, and shiny things with nice songs.
Thank you for your kind words. We helped her as she struggled with Alzheimer’s for the last four years. She was diagnosed with lung cancer in December ’07 then died in June. It would have been easy for you to miss it, because I didn’t talk about her health problems on LJ until after her death.
Like so many people I know online, including through LJ, you’re one of the people who has helped make my world a better place. Though you may think you are doing/doing/doing instead of being, you are a gift to more of us than you may realize.
That was the unsigned-in me, of course.