The Sixth Christmas

How is it even possible?

This will be the sixth Christmas since Cory died.  It's an impossible span of time.  Jake and I went Black Friday shopping together this year.  And on Cyber Monday, we huddled together on my bed and ordered most of his gifts.  He is not disappointed in the least to know what he is getting, in fact, he prefers it that way. "Surprises are overrated", he confided with a weary, older-than-his years tone.  The second my eyes met his, he looked away, blinking furiously.  Touche, son, touche.  Jake seldom says much about his loss, but once in awhile he drops a one liner than says far more than its face value would give away.  You have to know him, know how carefully he chooses his words and how seldom he offers his observations on life to fully grasp the meaning of these little conversational bombs.  You have to be well versed in his body language and understand that the more he looks away without meeting your eyes, the more he is opening up.  He does not take vulnerability lightly anymore. 

So the sixth Christmas without her, really?  Six?  I remember the first one and the last two, but the in between years are a shadowy no man's land of non-memory:  strictly survival.  The first year, I suppose I remember because at that point it hadn't even been six months yet and I was still shocked and puzzled how the world could go on without her at all.  Every breath I drew was like swallowing glass.

 Now I walk around the set of life a lot better, say my lines a lot more convincingly, and don't miss too many of my cues...at least not enough to sound any alarms.  But sometimes the feeling of watching myself  is uncanny and I remember how Cory used to describe this odd feeling of disassociation.  She would say it was like watching a play.  Or watching herself say or do things without really being in control...or able to care about the outcome until later, when she felt connected again.  I feel disassociated from others a lot, but sometimes, especially around difficult dates, yes, even from myself.  I go through the motions, mostly apathetic, but with enough muscle memory to nod and smile in social situations.  I can banter through the pain without missing a beat.  It looks social.  It looks appropriate.  But it's all about distance.  It's about giving someone what they expect from you so you can be done with that task and go off alone to fall apart without the weight of disappointing someone.  Because what you really feel like doing would not be nearly as pleasant to witness...the ugly crying, screaming, raging, or staring dully into space.

Twelve days till Christmas and I still need to put up my tree.  I need to decorate it with the carefully selected ornaments my best friend gifted me in an effort to help spark within me some small joy in the season.  "I want you to look at the tree and see your children." Have you ever heard anything so kind in all of your life?

Last year, Dr. Z asked me to put up one little ornament of Cory's from when she was little, just one.  I tried to appease this last request from him, only to discover Tim had accidentally thrown out every single one of our Christmas ornaments from the last twenty years.  My friend went straight to work to replace what she could.  That is love right there.   I have to get that tree up.  And I have to make it through my first Christmas since Cory died without talking to Dr Z, and I'm not quite sure how that's gonna go.  So far, it's going like crap.
 Last year, George Michael died.  This year, Dr. Z has retired. Face it, the holidays are just not my jam anymore.  I don't think they ever will be. 

So here I am just floating above, watching myself immobile, knowing I have a tree to put up and dear parents to treasure.  Jake and I have to take Cory a grave blanket and the giant nutcracker that stands guard.  Twelve days left.  Time to get moving.