Why Do You Suppose That Is?

Well, here we are, again — that time of year intended to allow individuals to celebrate, commemorate, relive traditions and create new ones, and in many cases, worship — collectively referred to as "the holidays." In this span of weeks we typically laugh more, eat more, spend more and do all things to excess. Which is, I guess, why we also grieve more.

But why? Thanksgiving is just a day. Christmas, another one. New Year's, the same. Each have 24 hours, no more, no less, than any other day of the year. Yet to someone grieving, they're days that just ... won't ... end. I think that's because you don't suddenly wake up that day realizing you're missing a loved one. It starts sneaking up on you weeks beforehand. You know it's coming. It's always creeping, looming, stalking. You can almost hear it. It's dreadful.

Why do you suppose that is? Why do we do that? And by "we," I mean we grievers. It's just another day! Why do we assign the most painful parts to the holidays? Why do we go around all day on those days with smiles pasted on our faces, but rocks in our stomachs, watching the clock for the magical stroke of midnight?

I am sad to say that I've had occasion to think about this a lot, for a while now. A daddy's girl to a fault, my sweet Daddy died almost 5-1/2 years ago. But he was almost 84 years old, and pretty much a spry character until the end. It was the way he would have wanted to go. It's the way I'd like to leave this world. Still, I didn't have him nearly long enough. I didn't know how I could go on without his presence in my life. I couldn't imagine anything worse than the death of my hero. 

Ahh, then, just one year later, my 30-year-old son suffered a brain aneurysm. Dear God. Oh my dear God. I wasn't yet done with Daddy's death. I was still in what-just-happened-here limbo. So, not this. Not now. And in a lightning-fast span of two weeks, my baby, my only son, was gone.

I suppose I did what most people do in the same situation. I went through the motions, I barely functioned. I began to remind myself of how I'd stood at my son's bedside and prayed, "Help me, God. Teach me what You want me to do with this." And I tried and have continued to try to listen. I have really, really tried. An eternal optimist (thank you for that trait, Daddy), I use self-talk to lift my spirits. I tell myself my son is in a better place (and believe it with all my heart).

I counsel with people who have recently lost loved ones, especially children, and try to help lift them out of those darkest of places, knowing each and every time I do that it threatens to suck me back down into that ugly, horrible abyss. But it doesn't.

It never wins. And it won't, because I believe God answered me and told me that's what I'm supposed to do. But try as I might, as obedient as I endeavor to be, it's still hard to grasp someone else's pain. We all have our own thresholds. People tell me all the time that they admire my strength. Thank you (I guess).   

But then come "the holidays." Again. What? Already? Didn't we just do this? I sit here in wonder that I'm approaching my fifth round. And try as I might, as much as I can call myself a "seasoned" griever, it sometimes threatens my very sanity. FIVE Thanksgivings without seeing your child stuff himself on dressing, the recipe handed down for generations. Approaching FIVE Christmases without hearing your child's melodious voice thank you for making his favorite — no-bake cookies. FIVE New Years without "Happy New Year, Mom. I love you."

Of course, as is my pattern with most things that I don't really understand, I try to figure out why these particular 24-hour increments, "the holidays," are so very difficult.

And I think I have it!

It's because the holidays are about memories. They're reminders that things will never be the same again. That someone will always be missing from the pictures. And that there will never be any new memories to crowd out the old ones. For me, it's the little handmade ornaments and the wooden stool made in Boy Scouts that showcases the Santa. It's that I'll never be able to give my son that super cool sweater I'd found. (I still have it hanging in my closet, you know, and whenever I see it, I think,"Brady's gonna love this," then gulp. Every time.) So, that's the problem with holidays. It's the memories.

Wait, no ... that's not really it. Memories are indeed a big reason, but that's not it. Oh, I know! It's because the holidays are stressful already, and then you try to carry this added emotional burden. You have so much to do that it's hard to allow yourself down time, time to reminisce, time to ... well, grieve. Grieve, there's that word again  ... that feeling we get when we reach for someone who has always been there, only to realize that when we need them — just one more time, just for a little while, please — they are simply no longer there. Yeah, that feeling.

When there's so much going on all around us that we somehow feel unsafe in our sadness. We don't have time for it! We need to work, and buy groceries, and clean, and live. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you have to experience that crushing sadness in order to push through it. It cannot, under any circumstances, be brushed aside for another day. Yeah, the holidays are stressful.

But I'm not sure that's really the reason, either. Hmmmm. Just a minute ... I think this could be it. It's because of the guilt. Yes, that's it. Guilt, that horrible feeling that washes over us when we see people experience so much joy during the holidays, that twinge in our gut if we feel ourselves start to laugh and experience any glee at all. If we find ourselves joining in, we feel remorse. I try to overcome this by reminding myself that my son is now having more joy in his life, all day,every day, than he ever would have here on Earth. I just wish I could witness that joy on his face for one tiny instant. Just one. One.

Okay, I give up. I really have no answers. I don't know why the holidays are deal breakers. I only know that when that first autumn leaf falls, my senses sharpen and my emotions become more acute. When I see cranberry sauce on store end caps, I feel bewildered. As the Christmas lights start to glow, my angst grows. When I see firecracker tents and ads with champagne glasses for New Year's and hear Auld Lang Syne, I feel physically ill.

But I know that I will do what I have already done four times (I won't call it "successfully," but I am still here), and will continue to do this holiday season:  First and foremost, I will love myself. I will do my best to take care of me, not overtiring, not overcompensating. I will be alone if I need to be. I will go out with friends (oh, those blessed friends, how I love and depend on you more than you will ever, ever know). I will decorate, bake, buy and wrap presents and sing Christmas Carols. I will give myself permission to cry, should I feel the need (and I will feel the need).

And I will survive. I will make it through, again. I will do all of this, despite the fact that we tend to assign the most painful parts to the holidays. And why do you suppose that is?