So how many more days until Christmas? However many it is, I don’t know if I’m going to make it. I think I might be more anxious for Christmas to come this year than any other year since I was about eight and heard the bells on the reindeer flying over the roof of my house. I’m not anxious because I’m excited about Santa or getting gifts or giving them. I’m anxious about Christmas Day being here so I can take on whatever emotions and grief it presents me and then move on. Right now though, I wish I had one of those advent calendars that counts down the days backwards until Christmas.
Every time I turn around, every place I look, there is a reminder. A song, a decoration, a memory. Something that says “Christmas” to me and reminds me of my sadness and sorrow and loss. I was at the Hospice seminar last week about grief and the holidays and they talked about Christmas as a day of the year. I couldn’t help but point out to the speaker there that Christmas isn’t just a day, it’s a whole season of events and activities and that is the part that I am trying to deal with now. The activities and traditions leading up to Christmas Day. In all the years leading up to this one, Coleen and I would share in all that and we would somehow manage to enjoy it. This year I am doing my best to uphold whatever it is that we would have done before. I made a gift list, I did the shopping, I talked to my daughter Lindsay, who is hosting Christmas Day dinner, about the menu. I was never extravagant about decorating the outside of the house, but I put up a few things on our porch and front door. I wasn’t sure at all what to do about a tree and inside decorations until a couple of days ago.
My granddaughter, Samantha had been hinting around about having a sleepover at my house. She did that a couple of times before with Coleen and me and liked being with us plus it was just her and she had all of our attention without sharing any with her little sister. Samantha has been talking about spending the night at Grandpa’s house for a while and she brought it up again just last weekend coming back from the North Pole. I told Lindsay that we could do it this week and we made plans for last night. After the plans were made I started thinking about what Sam and I would do together and I had a brainstorm. Maybe she could be my secret weapon and help me with the tree and some of the decorations around the house. I knew it was going to be very hard for me to do that alone because I’m such a basket case and uncontrollable sentimentalist lately. I thought having her around might numb some of that. I was right. It did numb some of it. But even adorable, four-year old Sammie, with all her sweetness and innocence, even she couldn’t numb it all. She did a pretty good job though and I got a lot more accomplished with her than I would have without her.
One of the Christmas traditions in this house that has always been dear to me is something that nobody else has ever known about until I told Sammie last night. In 1981, my mother bought Coleen and I a Christmas tree ornament. It was a little white bell with a red ribbon and it was inscribed, “Our First Christmas Together, 1981.” As the father of the house, I was always in charge of the annual Christmas tree installation, stringing the lights and unpacking the ornaments. I didn’t put all the ornaments on the tree, that was usually done by the kids and Coleen until more recent years when we have been empty-nesters. Then I did a lot of the ornament hanging, too. But all through the years, every year in fact, I made sure that the little white bell from 1981 was the first ornament on the tree and that it was placed in the most prominent spot, front and center, about a foot down from the top. Right where it would be noticed and seen. It always seemed like the most important ornament we had, the beginning of everything. And every year as the tree came down, I made sure that ornament was the last one removed from the tree and I carefully wrapped it in paper towels and put it away safely for the next year.
This year, even though I wanted Samantha to help me with decorating the tree, I wanted some privacy with the little white bell from 1981. So the day before she came over, I put up the little artificial Christmas tree I inherited from my mom. And the day Sam came over, before she got here, I brought the Christmas boxes up from the basement and opened the one with the ornaments. There was one right in the middle, right on top, wrapped in paper towels and very well protected. I unwrapped it and looked at it and held it to my lips. I thought of all the years, all the memories, all the love, all the laughter that bell has seen from its mount so prominent on our trees. It was right there, front and center, year after year and had stories to tell even I couldn’t recall. I am not ashamed to say how hard I cried with that bell in my hands, kissing it, making it wet with memories streaming from my eyes.
Eventually, I got it on the tree. It’s in the same place it is every year, but it’s on a different tree. We always had real evergreens. This year it’s a table top artificial. I have learned a lot about things being kind of the same but in different places. Like new branches, like my life, like same things in new places. It seems to make sense about my bell from 1981, too. As I was hanging it, I was having some trouble getting it to face out the right way so I twisted the branches of the tree to let the bell be seen and read properly. As I was fussing with the branches where the bell was hanging, it suddenly started ringing, seemingly by itself. I admit to jostling things around there a little bit, but not enough to cause that kind of commotion from a little white bell. It rang though, almost like it was being tickled, almost like it was laughing, almost like it was alive.
When Samantha came over later, she had a gift for me and it is now a new tradition. Lindsay had ornaments made with Coleen’s picture on them to give to family members and I got the first one. It was in special wrapping paper (a white bag that said “I love you Grandpa” with beautiful artwork) and came with a hand-written note from Samantha. She helped me hang the ornament on the tree and it’s beautiful there. I then showed her the little white bell ornament and explained what it meant to me and my secret tradition. I think she liked knowing that.
I admit to having lost my way a little bit with this post. The bell represents so much to me though, always has. It is just one of the many activities and facets and days of the Christmas season and there are so many more. They will come at me, sneak up on me, surprise me when I ‘m not looking. But they won’t be ignored. I will not hide from the things that made holiday seasons special for my baby and me. I will make the lists, do the shopping, wrap the presents, help with dinner and play the music. I will do it without her. I will do it with her. I will do it because of her.
In a room full of suffering people, in a room full of sorrow, I saw more light. Yesterday I attended a seminar hosted by Hospice that focused on grief and the holidays. Hospice offers several options for bereavement counseling and I have participated in some individual sessions but this was my first experience with a group.
I got there a few minutes early and took a seat in the front near a box of strategically placed Kleenex. As I waited for the seminar to start, I looked around the room and realized that everyone there was a survivor of someone no longer surviving. Everyone there had recently lost someone very dear to them, just like me. It seemed that most people were older than me although I noticed two girls, probably sisters, who were much younger. We were all on our journeys to find peace with the fact that we are building new lives that don’t include the loved one we lost. We are all looking for ways to do that. I didn’t do a head count but I estimate maybe 50 people were there, five of which were men. How is that interesting? Is it because more men die before their wives or is it that they don’t attend events like this if their wife goes first? Men are like that, you know. We are tough and strong and can fix things without the help of others or counseling. At least that’s what some of my gender thinks.
I guess I shouldn’t assume that everyone there had lost a spouse because that wasn’t the case. Many people were present because they lost their mother or sister. One woman had just lost her 17-year-old son and that was probably the saddest story of the day. It’s impossible to rank loss and sorrow, to say that one person’s is not as bad as another’s. I do have a hard time with some of the people who have lost a parent at an older age. One woman spoke of her pain at losing her mom who was in her early 90′s. I am not saying that her loss is not important and significant to he but we can not expect people to live forever. 90 years old is much longer than most people get and a celebration of that life is much more appropriate than an extended mourning. Certainly nowhere near the impact of losing a 17-year-old son.
The speaker for the seminar, Bob, was a chaplain in the Hospice organization and he had visited with Coleen and I and a couple of occasions. Once in the Hospice facility and once in our home the day Coleen passed. Bob offered us comfort then through some very kind and thoughtful words and prayer and I liked him. That was one of the reasons why I was interested in attending his talk. Yesterday, he focused mostly on grieving and how it can be more complicated around the holidays but also how it doesn’t have to be. Bob told some stories of how other people handled things and said there is no blueprint, just to do what seems to feel right. I liked some of his suggestions, especially the ones that I was already doing. He stoked some sadness but was very optimistic and encouraging. There were three things in particular he said that I liked enough to write down and share here:
He quoted a Rabbi whose name I did not catch, defining grief as “love not wanting to say goodbye.”
He told a story of a woman explaining some of her sorrow and hurt. “I’m no longer somebody’s one and only.” That statement hit very close to my heart as it was exactly the point of a post I had put up the day before, Being Loved. Exactly the same message except it took her a lot fewer words to say it.
He talked about having the holidays without our loved one and making it a little different, because it is different. He said “You’re making new memories.” That was also very endearing to me as it was a variation of the Ricki Lee Jones quote “You never know when you’re making a memory,” which Coleen loved so much and we have framed in our bedroom.
At the end, they told us we were brave to have attended the seminar. That it took a lot of courage for us to come and confront our pain and grief like that, to put ourselves out there. My friend Barb told me the same thing when I mentioned to her that I attended that. I guess that’s true, it took some courage to go. But the value of sharing yourself with other people in similar circumstances to mine and to be both encouraged and encouraging was immense. I listened, I watched, I learned, I contributed. It was a good experience.
I took much from the two hours I spent there. I was able to speak some of my thoughts on the Christmas season and grief and healing to the attendees. That felt good to me to have something relevant to say and express it somewhat intelligently to people who were interested in hearing it. People who actually seemed not just interested in hearing it, but enthusiastic and anxious to hear it. And that got me to thinking about this little project I have been working on. This daddyojones.com thing where I write about my journey in finding peace and comfort with my loss and where I discover how to make a new me from the gifts I’ve been given. I wonder if any of those people in that room, any of my fellow survivors, would get any comfort from my words. If maybe I could share some light with them. If maybe they could use a little bit of daddyo in their lives.
Discovery. As in I made one this morning. Yep, just sitting here finishing up a post and looking at my list of potential topics and a few photos of Coleen and me that are lying around here looking for a home. Discovery. It’s almost like an epiphany, like something that’s been floating around almost stealth-like. I knew it was there but I didn’t know what it was. I may still not really know what it is but I think I might be on to a part of at least.
I never read about this in the grief brochures or articles I have seen. Nobody mentioned it to me. Maybe nobody else knows about it? Nobody before me has ever figured it out? I doubt that. They tell you about the emptiness you will feel and the sheer pain of your loss when your spouse dies. They list loneliness, sadness, anger, depression, denial and others as part of grieving. Discovery.
For the past 33 years I have been one of the lucky ones. I was in a club, a pretty exclusive club I think. I was loved. I don’t mean loved like someone just saying that. I mean loved like being the love of someone’s life. I mean loved like unconditional. I mean love like being the strength and the beacon that someone counts on. I had the constant fulfillment of being loved by someone who I loved just the same, just as much. And, oh my God, what an awesome feeling that is. What a priviledge and an honor. I don’t think I can capture the warmth and fullness that creates in words. It’s almost a satisfaction that you are important and half of a wonderful relationship. And that you are loved so much.
My discovery is all that is missing from my life now. I already knew that Coleen was gone and I was focusing on how much I miss her all the time. How much she meant to me and all those wonderful years of memories. And how her passing has taken such a large part of me with her. But today is the first time I realized that another part of the loss, another piece of what’s now missing is that I’m no longer in that exclusive club where you are loved. I lost that, too. So the hurt isn’t just from missing her and not having her here to love. It’s also the feeling of not being loved that is killing me. That’s the other half of the equation. That’s another one of my truths.
The intimacy, hugs, kisses, waking up in the morning, coming home, phone calls, being part of her day. Making her happy, making her laugh, seeing her smile, being her husband, listening, loving, talking, sharing. Boy, I miss that stuff. There is nothing quite like being loved. That can’t be replaced. That’s another limb that fell from the tree. Will it grow back in a different place with different shade?
My discovery is probably not all that special. It might be something everybody already knows and I just now figured out. Like me being late for the party. To me though, it explains a little more about why I feel so sad sometimes. And the more I know, maybe the better I can understand and heal.
This is a drawing of me that Coleen and Samantha did together. I wasn’t actually there when they did it, but it looks to me like Coleen did the outline and Samantha colored inside the lines. I like how I am represented with my curly gray hair, blue eyes, glasses, yellow neck to match my shorts, and what appears to be a bottle of either beer or root beer in my hand. Probably beer and judging from the color of the bottle it’s either a Molson’s or maybe Sam Adams. Wonder how Samantha picked that color.
I found this artwork lying around the kitchen after they created it and made sure that it went somewhere special. It meant a lot to me but I didn’t have time to properly deal with it then so I put it away until I was in the right frame of mind to bring it out. I’m glad I waited because back then, I didn’t have a venue like this to show it off. Now it’s on the whole internet and everyone can see what great artists I hang out with. I just wish those girls would have signed their work. Much more authentic that way.
Not many people know that Coleen always wanted to be an artist. Except maybe me and her friend Sue, the Painter. Coleen took some art classes and purchased an easel and a bunch of paints and art supplies. I always thought she had a gift but she never made a very big priority of it. If I could guess, I would say that it is something she wished she spent more time on instead of working so hard.
I still have all of those art supplies here. There are colored pencils, paper, lots of paint and brushes and that easel, too. Some are in the basement and some are upstairs in a closet. Someday soon, I will give them all to the Girls so they can play with Grandma’s unfulfilled hobby. I know she would like that. Just some more gifts she left behind.
Two weeks ago I returned to one my safe places. I only have a few of those sacred spots where I can be myself, unconditionally me. Where I don’t have to be strong if I don’t feel it. Where I don’t have to be funny or anything else that might be expected of me. I can just be me in that moment. I like that.
Maureen is my massage therapist and she is the first person who made me feel safe after Coleen passed. In fact, Maureen was the first person to use the word safe in it’s true context to me. “Don’t worry, Rob. You’re safe here.” And I have felt that ever since. I was there again today with her for my third massage AC. I’m safe with Maureen because she listens to my heart when I talk to her. She hears more than just my words and she understands. I can be emotional when she has her fingers in my hair, I can feel Coleen’s fingers there. Maureen knew Coleen well and she made her safe, too.
I am safe in my bedroom. I was afraid it would be filled with sadness wall to wall, haunting me with pain and anguish through the night. Instead it is a haven of safety and comfort. Where I can go to feel Coleen and remember the hours we shared there talking and laughing. And sometimes more than just that, depending on her mood. It is safe because her things are still there. Her books, her notes, her clothes and items hidden away that I have yet to discover. I will always find her in that room, her bedroom, her space. And I will learn more about her.
I have found safety in our church where people I hardly know put their arms around me and console my sadness. I have gone there alone during weekdays when it was empty and knelt in a pew and prayed for Coleen’s safety, her safe passage to the next stop. I have wiped away tears praying for strength to continue without her and to be strong for my family. I can go there with no preconceptions from anyone. I can sit alone or stand out. I can sing aloud or kneel and cry. I always thought I would be able to go there when Coleen was gone and I would be able to feel her there. I was right about that. She healed there once. We both did and now I am trying again.
I am safe when I go to Reiki and visit Rebecca and when she asks me to tell her how I feel. I am safe when I trust Rebecca to guide me into meditation where I discover things that were undiscoverable to my previous self. Where I can hear the unheard, see with my eyes closed, and fell the breath of a whisper against my cheek. Aware of all. Conscious of nothing. It’s safe to hear her tell me about my changes and encourage me to be confident in my new self.
I am safe when I go to yoga at Healing Waters. It is at a beautiful property alongside a creek and surrounded by trees and it is truly one of Coleen’s special places. When I enter the studio I think of all the moments Coleen spent there, working on her technique and her spirit. Coleen studied yoga for years and it was always a very strong and positive energy for her. When I am there, sharing the same space she once filled, I think of her and I can feel her with me. A few times I have gotten very emotional during the relaxation part of yoga. That’s the time when I creep into a meditative state and let go of being conscious. Sometimes that’s when I can feel her the most.
I am becoming safer in my house, no longer worried about being alone here. It is becoming more of my house with a healthy dose of Coleen and the days of our family and dog living here. There is safety in the memories of those times. There is safety everywhere. And the further along I get in this journey I think more and more places will start to feel safe for me as well.
