When The Holidays Bring The Memory Of Loss

The holidays often bring the memory of loss.

December 17th, 2007 was the day my mom died. I can remember where I was standing in my kitchen at 9:23 am.

It was odd hearing from Spencer that morning. His halting, but loving voice came over the line.

“Margaret, Mom died.”

Just three words.  I was shocked, even though she was in her early eighties.

She hadn’t been well mentally, but physically, hadn’t seemed to have problems. I don’t remember much about the next few hours, except I cancelled my patients for the next few days.

It was hard to decide what to say.

“A death in the family” didn’t sound right somehow.

It wasn’t enough.

I remember wishing that I’d known that she was going to die, because – get this – I didn’t have anything to wear. It was a terribly silly thing to think. Yet my mother was always beautifully dressed, and she was patiently waiting for me to get out of my “jeans period”, as she called it. I chose an olive green outfit, but knew that Mother didn’t really like me in green.

I needed something blue, but there was no time.

When I saw my mother’s body at the funeral home, it was so odd. I was alone which was a mistake. An awful sound gushed out of my throat, a cry like a wounded animal.

I so wanted her to move, to respond to me.  That’s when it began to sink in.

I’d worked at the funeral home during the summers and had seen many people dead.

Just not my mom. Not my mother.

 

My mom’s funeral…

First, we had a private service with my father who was too physically frail to attend a church service.  It was tender and moving, held in their bedroom.

Her funeral was a comedy of errors.

My mother had been a Juilliard-trained musician, as a pianist and organist. I’d met with the organist and the pastor to specifically plan regal, ceremonious music – music that my mother would’ve loved.

They, unfortunately, decided to take matters into their own hands.

Instead of playing what I’d requested, the pastor had opted for some ditty called, “Life is a Symphony”.  It sounded like music you would hear at a carnival.  Literally oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah.  I expected a performing monkey to run down the aisle at any moment.

I was disgusted.  My brother Adam’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

Mother would have left if she could have.

As the family followed the casket down the aisle at the end of the service, I had a severe panic attack.  Maybe it looked like I was distraught. I was trembling, sweating. I had filled myself full of beta blockers before the service, anticipating such a response.  Still the panic won.  I shook uncontrollably, almost fell in my high-heeled boots, and clung to the usher who was leading me out.  I rushed into the waiting limousine.

Dad’s death… 

Dad died one week later, on Christmas Eve.  He had been very ill.  His death, although terribly hard for us emotionally, was a blessing for him.

My brothers and I were numb at that point.  We planned his service for a few days later.  I had time to actually go buy a dress.  I walked into the store, making a joke about needing a dress for a funeral, while inside my heart was breaking.

I bought low heeled pumps.

At the church, many people kindly said,   “They loved each other so much, they were supposed to go together“.  You know, that stuff doesn’t help and I don’t believe it anyway.  I’ve known a lot of people who deeply loved their spouses, who outlived them many years. Maybe Dad gave himself permission to leave since Mom was no longer alive.

But that’s it.

The next Christmas… 

Christmas of 2008 was hard.  I coped by giving each grandchild a piece of my mother’s jewelry. As a family, we did a “dirty Santa” game, which was something we’d never had as a tradition. It helped us through our vulnerability, but we’ve only done it once since.

And that was after my brother Adam died.

To everything there is a season.

The memory of loss...

I’ve watched many people go through the holidays, trying to cope with their memories of loss.  Many are mourning what their families never were, are not now or never will be capable of being.   Sexual abuse, alcoholism and drug abuse, even neglect or emotional estrangement becomes more poignant during the time of the year.

It stings more.

If there has been death during this time, and especially if it’s a death by suicide, it can feel like you’re trudging through each day, waiting to take a breath in January.

If you’ve lost someone you love this year, or if it’s the anniversary of their death, you can celebrate their life by creating a ritual that’s meaningful for you. You can honor that they are still alive in your heart and mind, and always will be.

I plan to do the same.

 

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