This Christmas eve was spent with one of my sons and his family. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent December 24th doing anything but going to bed early not feeling excited for the arrival of the 25th. My sons being grown and in different parts of the country we had started a new tradition of getting together sometime mid-January. Early in December I was invited to the other side of the state for the holiday. I warily accepted. Not because I don’t love my son and his girlfriend or the kids but because I didn’t know if I could muster enough holiday spirit for them. Home alone, with only my friend who has also lost a child and the animals, I could be how I felt. Grumpy. Bitter. Sad. Tired. Overwhelmed.
I usually pretend that the holiday isn’t near. If I think about it, then all the memories of Christmas’ past come spilling back into the front of my mind and the sorrow drowns me. The memories are beautiful but the beauty quickly turns to pain. That’s so much emotion to hold back so it doesn’t affect others. I keep emotions under control every day navigating the world without my daughter. The added weight of a holiday makes it nearly impossible. So, I hibernate.
This year I got the invitation to spend it with my son Gabriel and Julia, his girlfriend. And my three grandchildren. Three boys. The two oldest came into our lives a few years ago and there was a new one born this fall. I said yes right away but then spent the weeks between being asked to go and going worried that I would probably ruin the holiday for everyone. All I could do was tell myself I would do my best and if it got to be too much then I could excuse myself and hibernate in their house.
I am so glad I went and proud of myself for not needing to find a place to be alone.
We did normal Christmas eve things. Julia’s family was there, and they exchanged their gifts, and we ate and laughed. After dinner her family played dominoes at the table. It brought back memories of playing dominoes with my family over the holidays. I’ve shared in other writings the fact that I don’t talk to my nuclear family. I haven’t in the same number of years since losing Becca. That is another story, so I won’t go into details here. Hearing a family playing a game together was nice and sad. I sat on the couch and was surprised by the fact that though memories had surfaced I was able to process them quickly. Sometimes the little victories show us how far we have come.
After everyone left, we got down to the business of wrapping presents. Lots of presents. Whew. So many memories flooded back! Christmas’ where we had very little under the tree. Christmas, before the boys were born, when I was able to give Becca everything, she had asked Santa to bring. The one we had to make all our ornaments by hand because the ones from years prior had somehow vanished. The first one without Becca.
Wrapping gifts for two little boys was so much fun! Cars, bows and arrows, coloring books, a tent, bug detective kits. So many things that we ran out of wrapping paper and had to dig through the scraps from already opened gifts to patchwork together enough to finish the job. As we wrapped, sitting on the floor, more pieces of holidays past surfaced. The one that demanded to be remembered fully was from when Becca was five.
In 1988 I had spent months building a doll house for Becca. She’d seen one at a friend’s house and had made sure she asked Santa to bring her one of her own. I couldn’t afford one already put together or a large one, but I was able to buy a kit and spent my evenings slowly building the house.
I glued and painted and wallpapered the little dwelling. Piece by piece I added the thatched roof. I cut carpet to fit each room. I sewed curtains. Frilly ones for the kitchen, longer ones for the living room, pink ones for the little girl’s room. I carefully added flower boxes to the outside of the house on each side of the front door. A family member had offered to buy the furniture for the home as well as the family who would dwell inside. The house was perfect and ready in plenty of time! I set it up on Christmas eve after Becca had gone to bed and I was sure she was asleep. I remember being so proud of the work I did and that I was able to give my little girl exactly what she’d been dreaming of getting.
I always woke up well before my children on Christmas morning. I think I was more excited to see them open gifts than they were getting them. That snowy Christmas morning in 1988 was no different. I was up before Becca and already downstairs when I heard her open her bedroom door. Rushing down to the living room she saw the doll house and exclaimed that “Santa remembered!! Santa is real!!”
Becca was so thrilled at the little family inside, sleeping in their tiny beds, she didn’t notice me take off the tag that said, “To Becca, Love Momma”. My daughter was overjoyed that there was proof that Santa existed and that he had remembered her request. I didn’t want to take that away from her. She deserved to feel the magic of the holiday. I never told her, though she figured out the truth that Santa is imaginary eventually, and she never said anything. The doll house was a much more meaningful gift than I had ever imagined it would be.
Writing this memory down is bittersweet. All memories are happy and sad when you are talking about a deceased child. There is no uplift of joy in the memory without the inevitable plummet from the loss and sorrow. That is why it is sometimes easier to push the memories away before they take hold and are played through completely. But pushing them away keeps our loved one at a distance.
I desperately miss my daughter. I miss the little girl who believed completely that the Santa she had asked for a doll house had remembered and delivered it. The 12 year old Becca who finally had the nerve to ask me if Santa was real and was devastated when I told her the truth. Side story: after being mad for a few hours that Santa was indeed imaginary she asked me if the tooth fairy was real. I asked her if she was ready for the answer and in very dramatic Becca fashion she threw her hand across her forehead in a femme fatale style, wailed, and said, “No, I don’t think I can take it.” I miss the Becca that, a year after finding out about Santa, was angry that I was going to keep “lying” to her brothers about the jolly old fat man.
And, mostly, the 23-year-old Becca who spent Christmas day with me in 2006. Her brothers left for their fathers and she and I went to a movie and had Chinese food. This had been our yearly tradition since the boys’ father had come back into their lives. I remember that last Christmas with difficulty. She and I on the couch, me sitting and her lying with her feet on my lap. The only light in the room was the glow from the Christmas tree and a few candles. She had been so proud of the gifts she had chosen for everyone that year. She had her first well-paying job and had taken great care to get the perfect gift for each of us. I was rubbing her feet, her feet were always cold, and she was telling me what she wanted to get for everyone next Christmas. I treasure that memory even though it guts me to write about it.
Christmas’ will be different now that there are new little ones. I am forced to re-engage and build new traditions. Please, don’t get me wrong, I know I am blessed to have this chance but it’s hard to know that traditions I once had with my daughter are gone, forever. I hope I can be move into the next phase in life fully. As fully as a bereaved mother can.
I always said I never understood how the holidays could be an unhappy time for people. Since Becca’s death I do. I see so many who have sadness on their faces, behind smiles. I know of a few families who faced this holiday season without a loved one for the first time. My heart hurts for them. I hope they find peace. I hope I find peace.
Christmases to come will be different than in the past. New traditions, new family members. I am not the first parent to have to navigate the holiday season with a deceased child. I won’t be the last. I will do my best to find happiness as well as bring my Becca along with me into the “new”.
There is a bit more to the story I shared about the doll house. My daughter spent hours playing with the family who lived in it. She poured over the small details and missed nothing. She even noticed the tag underneath a small side table in the living room that I had missed. Becca looked at it for a second then turned to me and said, “Huh, I guess Santa shops at Frank’s, too.” Yep, I told her, I guess he does.
Missing you like always, Becca. I’ll always keep you near. Merry Christmas my little girl.
Words Can Express 