A triumph
Three years ago at Christmas, our first together, I spent a good two hours on the phone with A as I put the tree up. I couldn’t tell you now what we talked about. Everything, I’m sure, as always. We constantly surprised ourselves at how our conversations ranged from the silly to the philosophical, sometimes within seconds. One night he made a joke involving Boutros Boutros Ghali and popcorn and I laughed myself sick. THAT was the kind of man he was, and god, I loved him for it.
Two years ago at Christmas, I put up the tree as usual, and piled all his gifts under it until it was time to ship them out. I got him a nice warm fleece jacket, and a little copper bell, and some manly, unscented hand cream, and a book of New York Times crossword puzzles. He got me a grasshopper pin and a couple of his favorite movies. He wore that jacket during our trip up to camp and back. He looked good; he always looked good to me.
A year ago at Christmas, I wasn’t feeling like celebrating. It’d been five months since he’d left, and it may as well have been 5 days. I was still having anxiety attacks several times a day, still having meltdowns every day, and the pain was still so sharp. Everywhere I went, people were shopping for their loved ones, and I was one loved one short. I would see gifts for him, and brush away tears as I left them in my wake. I couldn’t make cookies, because I wasn’t sending him any. I got gifts for E and for my family, put a wreath on the coffee table with a pine-scented candle, and that was the holiday. I did the best I could, but my heart wasn’t in it.
I have been thinking for a couple months about what I was going to do about the holidays this year. I felt like I might be up to a little more, but wasn’t sure how much. But when I saw that tree on my walk the other night, I realized that I did want a tree, despite the potential melancholy of the holiday season which, if truth be known, has always touched me a little, I think since I moved away from my family and holidays have become less of a big deal. So this morning, I fired up the Johnny Mathis and dug out the big box with the Christmas tree.
As I pulled branches out and fluffed them, sticking them into the trunk, I realized that I was working fast and trying not to think too hard about it. Trying not to focus on the fact that I was doing Christmas in spite of the fact that this weekend has seen more tears of grief than any weekend in a long time. Trying not to think about the reason why I didn’t do Christmas last year. I was not savoring the moment; I was just trying to get through it.
I wonder who it is that observes me at moments like that. I have read that it is the soul, which is ever composed and complete, that calmly observes our conscious selves doing and feeling things that are not so calm, and perhaps a little whacked out.
I did get the tree put up, and the lights on in a ridiculously haphazard manner that I’m sure I’ll regret come New Year, when it’s time to take it down. I was amazed at my own cleverness, though, when I found each string of lights carefully coiled and sealed in a zip-lock bag so that there would be no untangling to do. I’d forgotten I’d done that; it’s been two years, after all.
And when I thought about it being two years, I marvel at how fast time passes anymore. Sometimes I count on it, thinking that if the months continue to fly by, maybe the years without him won’t feel like quite so many.
In between steps, and when I’d go out to the garage for boxes of ornaments, I worked on the ornament I’m making for him. I think it’s going to turn out pretty well. It just needs sanding and a couple holes drilled in top and bottom. I saved a space right in front, close to the angel (which isn’t really an angel—it’s a Santa—but I still think of it as an angel), just as my A is now. I go in big for symbols, as you may have noticed.
While I may have started the venture with a “just get it done” attitude, by the time I was finished, I was quite pleased with it. I do love me a Christmas tree, and so many of the ornaments tell my history. I’ve been putting some of these on my tree since college. Others are hand-me-downs from my family, and are as old as I am. Others belonged to my grandmother, and are quite a bit older than I.
When I finished, I had an extra ribbon. I wasn’t sure what had originally been on; I hadn’t come up short. I thought to put it on the ornament I’m making, but it was too broad, and I had a better one. And then I spied Anubis, a small statue I have sitting on the secretary desk in that room. Anubis is the Egyptian god of the dead, their guide and guardian.
And so Anubis got the ribbon, and while it was, I admit, a bit sassy on my part, I rather like it. Putting up this tree is a personal triumph, not over death, for death is a doorway all of us will walk through eventually; no exceptions. But it is a triumph over pain, and over sadness as a way of life. It is symbolic of choosing life (ironic when the tree’s artificial, but work with me here), and choosing to trust that often emotion follows action. I have found in this journey with grief that pushing too hard, too soon, results in feeling worse, but that pushing just a little in those moments when I’m not quite sure if I am strong enough for the thing I’m contemplating results in my feeling better, and feeling proud at having made that step. So it is with this. I have learned not to force myself when I feel very strongly about staying put, but when it could go either way, forward is always my best choice.
When it could go either way, forward is always my best choice.