It’s one of those things you always hear: loss is hardest around the holidays. I can already feel the approach, weaving its way around me like a boa constrictor, ready to start tightening its grip without warning. Do I make an attempt to flee, or will any movement simply trigger it into action?
Last Thanksgiving, Scott felt good. He was on a rest day in the middle of the conditioning chemo that preceded his stem cell transplant. His neutrophils were high enough for him to be allowed off the hospital ward for a few hours. Spontaneously we went grocery shopping and then back to my little temporary flat, where I whipped up a surprisingly good facsimile of a traditional Thanksgiving meal. We watched the parade online while I cooked. We Skyped with family back in the US. It was almost like a real holiday.
Last Christmas, Scott didn’t feel as well. A few days before, things had been going as planned. The transplant had taken, and his release from hospital was imminent. Days away. But then some troubling complications started creeping in, delaying his expected release date by days at first. We were still hopeful. We thought the worst was behind us. He came over to my wee flat again, the first time since Thanksgiving. I made pasta. It was nice, but he was in pain. I drove him back over to the hospital, as he wasn’t up for the short walk. Even though he was there until April, Christmas day ended up being the last time he left the hospital alive.
So, yeah, this year the holidays are going to suck. I have wonderful friends here who have invited me to join them, for which I am extremely grateful, but I’m not sure if being around people will make things better or worse. I’ve decided to start some new holiday traditions for myself: so far my new plans for marking Christmas Day include drinking too much and sobbing uncontrollably. Do I really want an audience for this?
Oh man… I didn’t realise that Christmas was his last day out of the hospital. I am glad I am seeing you soon. You don’t need an audience for crying and sobbing if you don’t want, but you should have a lifeline out of it – a person to call to say “come and get me now”.
Oh, hon. If I’ve learned one thing about grief & holidays it’s make your plans, but also be okay with plan b. It helps to have friends who get that. Hugs.
I agree with Lara, be in the holiday festivities but attend to your needs. Hugs and kisses and love. XO
Sorry, your Christmas must have been really difficult whether you were with people or not. I hope Hogmanay & the new year are better for you and Purrcules! You can probably guess this but I have no idea what to say and yet I thought it would be better to say something than nothing. If you’re into it, there’s some great music at Celtic Connections in Glasgow. I’ve always wanted to go but I’m not nearly as close.
Finally, thanks for your writing & take care of yourself!
Your blog appeared when I googled home-buying in Scotland. I wandered through your days, sucking in a surprised breath when I saw the first widowing post. I’m so sorry for your loss and the intense pain that comes with it. I suffered severe grief sixteen years ago from an unwanted divorce. Although different, I can appreciate the cutting loneliness,intense sorrow and the cloudy confusion that follows the death of a relationship.
Your writing is immediate, authentic. It touched my heart when I read about your homebuying trials, the settling in and your pain. Your sharing your experiences is a gift. And, grief takes its own course, much like a river, sometimes turbulent and frightening, sometimes soft and meandering. And, I pray the new depths of heart you’re experiencing in suffering add an additional dimension to your already beautiful paintings. That might be the highest compliment to your husband: in grieving him, you find even more of yourself. Grief can do that, although it isn’t something we seek out.
All the best,
Karen