It’s funny. Because we always say tomorrow isn’t promised, which is true. But the anniversaries that come up, when you’ve lost someone you care for - they seem to be promised. They lurk in the shadows, and loom over things like graduations, birthdays, and common every day actions like running out of milk. They seem to be promised. Even though tomorrow isn’t.
Every year I try to do something that reminds me of all the happy memories of my dad: we have done random acts of kindness, donated our time to organizations, shared his memories with others. Tomorrow we have plans to go look at the Christmas lights. Undoubtedly, other people will see how beautiful they are and be excited about Christmas. I will, as well.
But, it will also remind me of the time he sent my high school boyfriend up the ladder to help him string lights, the boyfriend who was only invited because I was late getting home the night before and he called when I should have been home. It’s funny how my punishment was also his.
Kids, pay attention - you used to have to call and talk to someone’s parents to reach them. It was a wild and terrifying time for us.
But, I suppose it led me to one of my favorite Christmas memories. My dad, with is chest puffed out, arm straight in front of his body to shake this poor boy’s hand and a voice that seemed like an impersonation of Barry Manilow leaving his lips, “I’m Jim Carpenter.”
If we had emojis then, you wound have gotten a puzzled monocle wearing one from me, as I said “uh, that’s not your real voice.” Out. Loud. ….I’m pretty sure I can feel his death stare still, all this years later. Which, I suppose is a double joke. Since he’s, you know, actual dead now.
The holidays are approaching, quickly. But first, every year, we have to get past the day he died. And usually I feel like I do that with as much grace and dignity as is possible. Sprinkled with a few “tasteful” jokes, of course. Today, however, I stumbled across a post about a little girl with cancer who died yesterday. Something made me hit the page that had been created for updates. And I got lost in it.
I watched as she, going from present day back through the posts, transformed back from a swollen bed-bound girl back into who she was in July of 2020. Before the cancer. I read their struggles with the steroids, as all brain tumor patients know all too well. I saw their family photos around her hospital bed in the living room. I watched videos of the wet rattling gasps these patients make when they have to give all their effort just to tell us what they want to eat. She wanted mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving. Which is different than the last Thanksgiving my dad had when he asked my mother for some inedible things for dinner instead. But she seemed like a sweet girl. Jim was neither of those things. But we hung on his every word, anyway.
And I wept. Alone on the couch, I cried. For that family. For our family. For the anniversary looming over our head. I remembered how I hated taking pictures of my Dad then, because I didn’t want people to comment on how bad he looked when, us, he was having one of his better days. I watched this mother have to defend that same action. To read comments about how sugar isn’t good to feed this poor girl who wanted ice cream. And my soul felt it. I gave that man squeeze cheese on crackers whenever he asked for it. Because he was asking for and able to eat food. I celebrated their family’s victory from months ago when they got her to drink an entire 16 ozs of Gatorade in a sitting. And I silently cheered, because I know what a feat that was.
Watching their videos, I remembered the deep chest rattles of someone who needed their lungs suctioned. I can vividly recall the triumph it felt to get someone to the dinner table, even for a couple of bites. The fear you felt when their heart rate went up…or down.
I felt every single step of their journey in a way that made me heartbroken for them and for me, all at once.
They tell you it gets easier, as the years pass. And, for some, I think that may be true. I think, instead, it just gets different. I’m far enough removed now to be able to process what it was like to do CPR on my dad, who I knew was dead. Even two years ago, it was still a flash of a memory. Now I can feel it. I’m not longer just watching it, when I recall it; I am an active participant.
And now it’s been almost 8 years since I have heard him call me D-Bug or had him demand I make him homemade mustard with onion bits. It’s been even longer since he stood at my front door, with his earbuds in, jamming to Gwen Stefani or Kelly Clarkson so loud he couldn’t hear me yell at him to come in. And made me stomp to the door, and fling it open, only to hear him singing “this shit is bananas. B A N A N A S.”
I was meant to be wrapping presents and preparing for a fun evening tonight. Instead, I found myself digging through the file cabinet in my brain for happy memories. Remembering how he taped every single moment of every single holiday. That tripod was a staple in our house. I’m remembering how, after a bad encounter with a boy at college, he gave me the best advice ever. “If you haven’t slept with a boy and he says you have, tell him you’re going to tell everyone his penis is small. He’ll retract. Men want to be seen as a liar before they want people to think they have a teenie weenie, D-Bug.”
As you can see we weren’t the Cleavers, and we weren’t always philosophical thinkers. But, well - first of all he was right about that boy. And second, we were happy and we were who we were.
Which leads me to my final points.
Grief is hard. It’s harder at the holidays. And it’s especially hard, from my perspective, for people who lose their loved ones at the holidays. Be patient and be kind to each other. Because I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have someone to miss. Don’t make them decide between being happy and with you or being sad and alone. There’s room for it all.
And finally, all you can do is be who you are. Feel your feelings, and let them out so you can make room for the happy ones. Remember the scary and the sad. But also remember how you always felt like your dad loved you the best and that’s why he left the back of the tree for you to do alone. (I figured it out…later.) and if all else fails: teenie weenie, my friends.
Be good to each other. We all need it. Merry Christmas.
