Five Christmases

I had to get a sticky note out the other day and write the years down before I could believe it:  2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016.  I counted the dates again.  Yes, it was true; this will be the fifth Christmas since Cory died.

If you're looking for some progress, check out the last word of the previous sentence.  I didn't say "since the accident" or since Cory "passed away".  I said died.  Cory died.  She no longer lives.  She is not coming back.  Acceptance.  Dig it.

Stunned, I sat with those five Christmases ticked off on my fingers and searched myself for any conscious memories of how they were spent.  On the first one, I seem to remember my friend, Nicole, stopping by and bringing me scrap booking supplies which launched my first healthy coping skill to navigate this whole mess.  She does not, to this day, know the magnitude of that particular gift.  She put into my hands the ability to survive.

On the last one, my victory was showing my face, however briefly, at the family Christmas Day dinner.  You know that saying about the most important thing in life being to show up?  Yeah, I may have adopted that a bit literally.

 As for the others?  I have the vaguest recollection of my dear mother bending over my bed and touching my hair, having stopped by with a plate of food and because she could not bear to pass the holiday without laying eyes on every one of her children.  For the most part, those Christmases are black holes of suffering in my mind, a bit hazy due to the meds that helped me get through them.  But I did get through them.  I lived through them and got up the next day to try again.  So there's that.

But the question is begged, then, what sort of Christmas did I provide for my remaining child?  I had to ask Dr. Z about this today because this exact topic had been brought to my attention recently.  The person who spoke to me about trying a little harder to be festive during the holidays, for Jacob's sake, is the single person whose opinion matters most to me.  Of course, this observation was meant to push me a little further, to get me to the next level, and was perhaps born of a desire to see a glimpse of the pre-Cory's-death Nick (which I'm sorry to say no longer exists).  I, being plagued with anxiety and depression these last few weeks, took it as a "you've been a bad Mom" statement.  Of course, this was never said, it's just the way my guilt-ridden, sleep-deprived mind interpreted it.

Dr Z, ever clever and on his game, said immediately, "Well, let's get away from the good-bad labels, shall we?  Are any of the children you support in your job bad?  No, there are no bad children- there are only children who struggle.  Of course, you are not a bad Mom, but you are a Mom, who quite rightfully, has struggled these last few years.  Yes?"

Tears streamed down my face.  He reads my heart, this man.

"Let me tell you what I see first and then let me take a guess at what the true message was to be from this loved one whose opinion means all to you."  He stopped here with palms up, waiting for permission to go on.  I nodded.

"I see a mom who has kept her son safe, who has given him love, and who has modeled for him how to grieve with honesty, even if it isn't the model of grief that society around her supports.  I see someone who doesn't force her son to take steps in grief that he isn't comfortable with because she knows exactly how intrusive that feels and how counterproductive it can be."

Tears.

"I suspect the message was that time with your loved ones here on Earth is all too short and incredibly precious. Do you think maybe that was it?"

I nodded, accepting the kleenex box he passed to me.  Idly, I wondered how many boxes of kleenex he goes through in a week.

"Before you can join in these holiday celebrations and rituals, and be truly present and engaged, we've got to find a way to move the focus from the very real anguish of Cory not being here now to how grateful we are for the time she was here...and what she brought to us all...as a fighter, a champion, an artist, a friend.  It is not an easy trick, this shifting of perspective.  It will happen on no one's timeline but your own.  And you are doing better every year."

"Should I do be doing more for Jacob?"  I had to ask because once you've unintentionally sent one of your children to her death, you will never again hold your head high, confident in your parenting skills.  Every move is second-guessed from there on out.  It sucks to no longer trust your own judgment.

"No, you are doing all the right things for Jacob."  he dismissed, with a little wave of his hand.  "But  for you...I ask, what would it be like for you to bring up one of her ornaments that she made you as a little girl from the basement and hang it on your little tree?"

My face must've shown my explicit horror at this homework assignment from hell, because he smiled gently with all the charm he possessed and held up a single finger.  "One.  Just one...a little one."

Only because he was the man whose comfort I sought frantically the morning after the accident...only because he sat silent with me, my journal open on the table between us during my first visit with him....  only because he helped my daughter to see herself as strong and competent...only because he led her out of the darkness...

did I reluctantly give my consent, "I will try."

And for him.  I will.
 Dr. Z has a way of making you want to be the best possible version of yourself.  No wonder he has always reminded Cory and I of my father.