It's Cold Inside

I had this thought today: "I hope I don't die just before Christmas". Crazy as it sounds, my year has been a bit rough and my health concerns have made me paranoid about every racing pulse or short breath. But when I thought this to myself, I actually wasn't overly concerned about dying just about dying this close to Christmas.

It was a cruel thought, particularly as a mere 6 days ago and 11 days before Christmas, 27 people, 20 of them children, were gunned down and killed in Newtown, Connecticut. The week before, a friend's sister had committed suicide. I know with certainty and without googling it that millions of people are suffering or dying in some sort of fashion regardless of the advent of December 25th. Of course, suffering or dying does not limit itself to calendar holidays, be they religious, secular, or silly. What are held fast to that digital or paper calendar, perhaps even one magnetized to your fridge, are the cultural and familial traditions that bind us to the rituals, emotions, and expectations of  this particular "holy day".

Grief and loss can be unbearable in any context and fraught with private and painful reminders and triggers. But grief born at Christmas? A constant, excruciating sensory inundation of reminders - each song, smell, tinsel string a slap. Each year, a grief to be ushered in by early November and marched relentlessly through December in a fierce grip of public celebration, commercialism, and obligation.

When we were 24, my same-aged cousin nearly died. Just before Christmas, however, he came out of a coma, and the family rejoiced and did great goofy happy dances down the hospital halls. My cousin, however, came out of the coma a quadriplegic. He had a year of physiotherapy and suffering ahead of him. (spoiler alert: he has since recovered and is almost his old self) For years, we never understood why he would withdraw around Christmas time. He had lived! He had survived! He had proven all the "experts" wrong!

But, of course, he had lost a great deal too: his independence and mobility, for awhile; his short term memory, for a long time; his youth and innocence, forever. He grieved at Christmas, for his lost self. None of us in the family realized this until he finally stood his ground three Xmases ago and said, "I can't do this anymore". He couldn't fake the frivolity any longer. Christmas made him sadder than sad and none of us had noticed.

I don't need to tell you that Christmas oscillates, that some years it seems crass and others magical; some are twitch-inducing; others, delightful. I don't need to tell you that just as we are conscious of those in financial need at Christmas, we can be equally sensitive to those whose hearts are quietly breaking and re-breaking at every sight, smell, and sound of Christmas cheer, their grief and sadness inextricably and irrevocably linked to this cultural zenith of celebrations.

We can pray our own times come, late in life, on a bright, insignificant Spring day when frosts are slain and flowers begotten. Peace to all.






And, to banish what might be your imposed Christmas soundtrack of grief, there's nothing like a little Van Morrison, Summertime in England. It just is:

It's Complicated

If I right this very minute pulled on my wellie boots and slung a leg over Shelly & Jeremy's fence, tiptoed through Charlotte and Johanna's funky ol' hodge-podge of a tudor house plus garden and threw myself over a second fence, I could be standing in her backyard. If I then pointed myself due south with a lean to the east and walked a block and a half, I could be at the edge of the water where her body was found. A couple of options are open to me at this point. I could turn on my heel, head straight north and land on my doorstep in a minute or two. Or I could.

I could trace and re-trace this triangle with sharp imaginary pens in my head over and over, from my house to hers to the beach, my house to hers to the beach, from my house, trying to fathom how I could not hear, help, or know this beautiful, brilliant, desperate young woman drowning herself in the cold Pacific waters one block from my home. While I slept. While we all slept. There is much in the space inside the triangle's lines.

Of course, how could I know? Our universal voice is pretty hard to hear in the chaos and minutiae of our every day. I could not.

I can be desperately sad. Confused. Sad some more. Not really confused. I remember.

I can remember what it is like to be 16. To feel overwhelmed by your body. To be overwhelmed by your mind and your thoughts. To not want anyone to think you weren't normal. After all, this is weird, right? I'm acting weird, right? To want the world and not be sure it is yours for the taking. Not sure if you really are smart, beautiful, special enough to take your place in the world. I can remember having an imperfect, non-nuclear family. I can remember feeling awkward, feeling like my ground wasn't as solid as everyone else's. I can remember. I remember my grandmother telling me that once I turned 18, I would feel better. I remember thinking she didn't know what she was talking about. My grandmother was right.

I wish Freya could have hung on, until 18, or until whatever it took to find and love herself again.
All I can do is re-trace my triangle and pray for Freya and her heartbroken family. I wish I could do so much more.

Rest in Peace, Love, Joy
Freya Milne, February 2, 2010

This song is beautiful: Ford Pier's "Why On Earth"