Christmas Mourning
December 3, 2009 by admin
Filed under living with me
Part One, A Regular Madeleine Monday
I knew Christmas would always be a rough time. Holidays are tough when you lose someone you love. Even if the your great uncle twice removed was reincarnation of Scrooge himself, you could still raise a glass in toast “To Great Uncle Bif, may you rest in peace knowing that you don’t have to spend money where your sitting right now!”
When you lose a child, life must go on for the rest of the family for the rest of eternity. It isn’t easy. It just is what it is. Christmas of 1996 was different than any of us expected.
Now here’s the deal. I am a “piler” which is much different than a “hoarder.” I make little piles through the house of stuff that I need to put away. I know what is in each pile at any given time. I don’t put anything away until I can put it away until I can put it away the right way.
I’ve got piles in my office and piles on my kitchen counter.Maybe there is one in the dining room, too. However you can open my file cabinets and you will find color-coordinated machine generated labels with every product manual you could want in perfect, logical alphabetical order. Sure, my desk top looks like a cluttered mess but to me it is just stuff I haven’t put away properly.
Towels are folded a certain way and it must be while they are still warm from the dryer so they crease easier. Dishclothes have the same story. Someday I’ll snap a picture of my rag drawer for you. Oooh, envy.
I’m not any different with the Christmas decorations. Hallmark ornaments go in tiny baggies along with the original box. I don’t put them back in the box because (heaven forbid!) I may cause that box to wrinkle and depreciate in value (eBay alert! eBay alert!). Breakable ornaments are wrapped in tissue paper and then put in a plastic baggie. Bigger items are wrapped repeatedly in platsic grocery bags and put in labeled totes. The amount of effort the elves put forth to help Santa’s magic happen … well, that’s the way I pack away Christmas. What can I say, those quirks are my quirks and they aren’t going to go away.
The Friday after Thanksgiving of 1996 had me hauling my Christmas boxes down from the attic and organizing them in the proper order as I got ready to decorate the tree. I cannot remember anything unusual about my presence of mind up until that point. Another year, another tree. Same old, same old.
I opened the RubberMaid tote that contained the lights. Hold it, the lights weren’t in their individual ziploc bags. Alright, I was mildly pissed. I decided I was going to skip the lights. After all, it was a lot of work to put them up. It wouldn’t be the first time I skipped lights.
I grabbed my Tupperware container of ornament hooks and reached for the first bin of ornaments. I popped open the lid and it the contents of the container just blew my mind and every emotion I had stuffed inside of me for the past three hundred and thirty some days came flooding back to me. All the ornaments were jumbled together in this one bin. They still had the hooks attached! This was, in my mind, a catastrophe. I was blinded by my emotions. Literally, blinded. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t stop crying. I wasn’t crying about the fate of the ornaments. This was the shove I needed so I could finally cry, sob, even tantrum.
Until I opened that tote I accepted Madeleine’s fate, her undiagnosed degenerative neuro-muscular disorder. I accepted our loss, I knew it was coming.Me. Pro-active and not re-active. That’s me.
And now I was reacting to this newly opened RubberMaid tote by crying? I never cry.
I remember the gut wrenching feelings that came over me. Gut wrenching. We’ve all used the term, who hasn’t? But I felt it, I literally felt my gut wrench. Never in my life had I experienced this sadness or woe. This type of grief doesn’t come in waves, it is a tsunami of emotions and I was drowning fast.
That was the first Christmas that we had a naked tree. No lights, no ornaments, just a naked tree.
The cardboard holiday storage boxes and green and red plastic totes sat in the hall untouched until the kids went back to school the first week in January. I carried the boxes up to the attic and locked the door, I didn’t return to the attic until the following year.
Each Christmas I grew a little bit stronger and did a little bit more, but I still dreaded every moment of it. We did the same stuff every year, traditions must be upheld because after all life goes on. Oh, and did I mention each year I got a little bit bitchier? I dreaded anything and everything that had to do with that damn tree. I was fine with the cooking, the baking, the shopping, the wrapping. In fact, the shopping helped more than I could have ever imagined.
With two boys remaining, I missed the “pinkness” that goes with a daughter. Although Madeleine was disabled beyond the point of playing with dolls I didn’t realized I had been “ripped off” by her not needing the toys and trinkets that go along with little girls until she was no longer here. So I bought. And I bought. And I bought.
And I sat at home and studied everything in great detail. The painted on eyes of The Little Mermaid, the plastic smell of baby dolls, and the jeweled crowns. After scrutinizing these girlie girl items, I returned most of the stuff I had bought and the rest I donated to Safe Harbor, a shelter for domestically abused families in our area.
I was healing. If I could just move past this sticky situation with the damn tree.
By this point I had become a foster parent and our Christmases were no longer traditional. In fact, our holidays became downright unconventional. I preferred to foster children that were going to be long term placements. For three consecutive years, our Christmas pictures each featured a new infant or toddler that stayed with us on their journey to their forever home.
Our families size changed constantly and our traditions changed just as fast, too. Some of the children we had with us didn’t use stockings at Christmas, they used shoes because, well … that was their families tradition. When I went upstairs to bed that night, our upstairs hallway was full of shoes, easily twenty-five pairs and maye even more. My children and the children living with us at the time thought if one pair of shoes brought treats, why not put out ALL of your shoes and see what kind of loot will be produced.
Incidentally, the year of the “shoe incident” was also the year I made some of my greatest strides in my life. I abandoned the tradition of a real tree. If I really wanted to live in the here and now I had to let go of pieces of my past. For me, that big ol’ tree decorated with oodles of ornaments from years gone by was more than I could handle.
I’ve never re-opened the totes. I have them, I’ve moved them twice. Someday I’ll open them. Or then again, maybe not. We still have a tree, but it is artificial and I decorate it alone. The lights are white and sparse. The ornaments are red and there are a ton of them. I spend a full day on the tree, shaping the branches.
I tried to compromise, I tried to put other ornaments on the tree but I couldn’t handle it. Sometimes I feel selfish that theornaments my kids made in school end up taped to their bedroom doors and not out in the living room. I still struggle with my emotions I am proud that I can look forward to putting up a tree.
To be continued tomorrow.
(((Sister)))
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