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"I wish I knew what was going on in your head," my husband, Tom, said to me as he slid a storage bin into the center of the room with his foot. "You seem so...lost." That's because I was lost, I told him.
Usually, I loved December. But this year, I'd been listless at Wednesday night holiday choir practices and didn't even go to the annual community tree lighting. It was 2013, and my son, Michael, had passed away in July.
"It seems like you got through yesterday okay, though," Tom said. It was the day after Christmas, and I'd requested that we take down the decorations early. I stared at the Tardis tree ornament which Tom bought in honor of Michael. Then my arms dropped limply to my sides, a string of lights dangling in one hand. What is it? I thought. Why am I so stuck?
Then it hit me. "We were never together with Michael for Christmas," I said. Tom stopped packing his grandparents' miniature ornaments, a blank look on his face. I knew that he didn't understand. A bright, hot mass mushroomed in my stomach.
"I don't have any memories and never will!" My temper erupted like a geyser. I threw the tangled lights onto the coffee table and put my back to him; hot tears burst from my eyes.
As a woman who'd relinquished her child for adoption and only met him once before his passing, I was angry, bitter, and devastated. Years of lost time were compounded by the end of all future dreams I'd nurtured since the day we reunited.
The death of my son
In 1990, at 21 years old, I relinquished my son for adoption. I'd concluded after a long, hard look at my family history of dysfunction, my own childhood and my lack of education, finances, and support, that I was destined to fail as a parent. This, coupled with the ability to select the adoptive parents as part of an early version of open adoption, convinced me to seek out what I believed would be a better family.
It wasn't until my son's 18th birthday that we talked for the first time over the phone. After so many years of not knowing anything, I wanted to uproot my life, buy the house next door to where he lived, and smother him with love and attention—but I'd been wisely counseled to let Michael control the pace of our relationship. So instead, I resigned myself to waiting for him to come to me.
I'd reach out on his birthday and Christmas with short text messages expressing my love and wishing him well without any expectation of an answer. I merely hoped to keep the lines of communication open and to let him know he was on my mind without appearing demanding, despite the desperation I felt. Then, finally, two years later, he asked to meet me in person.
That remains the most beautiful day of my life.
But then, three years after that meeting, before I ever had the chance to hold him in my arms again, Michael died in his sleep. Two autopsies would reveal nothing. He merely fell asleep and didn't wake up.
And if I'd thought the holidays before his passing were hard—all those years wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he was all right—the one that came six months after his death wreaked havoc.
The holidays in 2013
And as soon as Christmas was over that year, I wanted all the cheery holiday crap gone. Which is why my husband and I had found ourselves clearing away decorations on December 26. Tom had insisted we put them up, saying it might ease my sorrow. But it didn't.
"David was on my mind a lot yesterday," I finally volunteered. Just thinking about Michael's adoptive dad brought an immediate shift from anger to compassion. Why can I feel sympathy for David but not myself? "I was wondering how he's holding up." My shoulders wilted as the anger vanished as quickly as it had risen. Absently, I reached down to pick up the lights again, twisting them in my hands.
I'd searched online for ways to navigate the loss of a child, and nothing seemed to help. But it made me wonder if David had tried any of the suggestions. Had he set a place for Michael or hung his stocking? Did the family buy a gift Michael would have liked to give to someone else? Did they laugh at shared memories and cry about his absence?
So many of the recommended coping techniques didn't apply to me; we'd never had a stocking for Michael; he'd never sat at my table; I didn't even know what he liked to eat. Then, on top of that, I hadn't even cried on Christmas Day. I wondered what was wrong with me.
As the days passed beyond the new year, I struggled to find ways to cope. My usual practice of dissociating wasn't working. I didn't want to get out of bed. Or eat. Or see people. I hated everything, but mostly myself.
My skin crawled for every perceived horror I'd committed. They fell like dominoes, cascading into a litany of sins and regrets; I didn't try hard enough to see him, I gave him away, I wasn't even a real mom. I felt like I didn't deserve to miss him. Finally, unable to endure it any longer, I surrendered to my grief, collapsing on the floor in a heap.
Coping with grief around the holidays
What I have learned in the nearly ten years since Michael passed is that my holiday grief returns year after year. Sometimes it's all-consuming, while at other points during the season it's merely a dull ache, but it is always present, always there. And I've realized that the key to surviving the sorrow is to give in to it—to acknowledge and honor my grief for the love it represents.
With each passing season, I learn new tools and coping mechanisms to help me through the holidays. Although grief is universal, there's no cookie-cutter grieving process that works for everyone, and I've learned to trust my gut. For example, I don't go to holiday parties if I'm not in the mood, and I don't feel guilty about it. I also assess my emotional health two weeks prior to the holiday: by getting a sense of my mental well-being ahead of time, I know what safeguards to put into place, like being sure a friend is available to help me through any anxiety attacks I may experience.
I regularly seek out other parents who've lost children to find out what works for them and then adapt the suggestions to my situation. The Compassionate Friends Network is an outstanding resource for anyone grieving the loss of a family member, and I also listen to podcasts that interview others about how they navigate loss.
I'm both happy and sad to report that in 2022, for the first time since Michael's passing, when Tom brought out his grandfather's tiny, white, artificial Christmas tree, I didn't balk. As we carefully unwrapped ceramic figurines and placed them beside the photo of me hugging Michael, I silently rejoiced that I'd held him in my arms as an adult, even if it was only once.
And when Tom opened the carton of miniature glass ornaments and handed the box to me, I realized I was smiling, despite myself. I hope that when it comes time to take down the decorations this year, whether I've been in the holiday spirit or not, I'll extend myself grace.
My goal is to embrace the entire experience: the joys and the sorrows, the yearnings and the regrets, and the ebbs and flows of my grief.
Candace Cahill is a writer, silversmith and musician. Her memoir is titled Goodbye Again: A Memoir. You can find out more about her work at candacecahill.com or follow her on Twitter @candace_cahill_.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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