Since I became an adult and discovered the truth about life (that it is hard and there is little magic in it), my Christmas joy centered on the profound exuberance in the faces of my nieces and nephews, the unexpected focus of my yearly trips back home, whether from Europe or from “down under.” Later, when I had my own kids, there was a small shift in my appreciation of the holiday. When my children were too small to really absorb the whole Baby Jesus story and Santa’s reindeer, I looked expectantly to my father’s face to observe his experience of my children. As a deeply Christian man, he loved the holiday and my babies’ wondrous expressions at glistening lights and caroling bells. He had a deep, bellowing laugh and his smile was infectious. He understood before I did the age-old saying, “Youth is wasted on the young.” Babies and children sparkle and glow with possibilities invisible to realistic adults.

In October, we lost my dad after a long, intense battle. His last months were a succession of setbacks, and I reluctantly stood witness to his suffering. Unable to speak for his final few months, tears of frustration filled his eyes, just as they filled mine. He had had a marvelous baritone voice and he had sung in a church choir his entire life. Like a young child, I yearned to hear his deep voice soothe me again. My last visit with him, I took his hand into mine and with my left hand and gently stroked his head. He was the small child, now. I was comforter. And although I submitted to this strange reversal, it chafed. My father died a few days later, alone, without me at his side.

I yelled at God. For the past two months, I’ve had very strong discussions with Him about His treatment of my loving, caring, righteous, obedient, faultless father. But none of my lashing out could affect the void his death left inside me.

And now here comes Christmas.

I approached this December with a heaviness of heart and a not-so-subtle bitterness. But because my three adorable little ones are the center of my pride and joy, I gathered them to me and we hung our wreaths and garlands, and decorated our trees (yes, we have three because I love Christmas trees) even earlier than usual – my attempt to wrestle into submission the clouds of sorrow after my dad’s two funeral services. It didn’t work – yet.

If my own long illness taught me anything, however, it is the certainty that I am a fighter who refuses to quit. I have accepted this now – I spent several years writing my book about my battles with my strokes, in an intense mode of exploration after finally overcoming what seemed absolutely insurmountable. I am a man who picks up the gauntlets thrown in my path. I recognize there will always be a fight for peace, for health, for love.

Of course, beating the odds of three strokes and dealing with my father’s death are two completely different mountains to climb, but climb one I have, and the other I must. And that’s where Christmas comes in.

Isn’t that the lesson of Christ? He overcame death so that we might live. He fought for our salvation and battled the self-righteous to intervene on our behalves. Though we all may be battered by personal sorrows, the Christmas season arrives to reaffirm for us that in scaling the cliffs of hardship, bridging the fiords of emotions, and traveling back from the far reaches of despair, we can find peace, we can experience joy again – maybe just a glimmer or shadow, but it’s there.

My wish this holiday is for us all to gather to celebrate the hope that Christmas represents. That hope is written on my children’s upturned faces and the open expressions of kids the world over. My father would’ve loved to see that. My desire and my assumption is that he does, with a joyous face, even as I may only imagine his deep, mellow, comforting laugh.

At year 1, we didn’t have Sue. At year 2, we didn’t have Shirley.

Perhaps unwisely, I hadn’t accounted for an appearance by Grief, my uninvited guest. I guess I was so deep in planning mode I hadn’t allowed myself the time and space to acknowledge the full bouquet of emotions this confluence of events might entail.

Then on the morning of Szaba’s party, I was blindsided on my way to pick up icing tips for the cake (particularly for a special mini cake that I would decorate in the tradition of Sue and Sue’s father).

There was some fun song on the radio, the sun was shining, Szaba was babbling in the backseat, and I felt an overwhelming wave of joy. Then riding behind that wave, to my shock, came an intense undertow of longing and sorrow.

I fought back the tears and shook it off as Szaba and I ran our errands and went to pick up flowers at the market. When I got home, I fed Szaba lunch and put her down for a nap, while I continued party preparations.

I took a moment to do something I love to do: arrange the flowers. And that’s when the tears came. In that quiet moment alone, the emotions could no longer be held at bay. I wept for the two guest who wouldn’t be at this birthday party, nor any future birthday parties. I wept for two incredible matriarchs and hostesses who had passed so much on to me as about the importance of treating your kids, family, and friends to a full-scale event, complete with special touches that let everyone know how much you care. That’s what I was doing now. For Szaba. For my guests. But with these flowers especially, for Sue, Shirley, and all they had done for me.

Of course, I had way too much to do to let the grief stop me, so I literally worked through it. Imagine my husband’s surprise when he found me crying while cleaning the toilet. With a look of half amusement, half concern, he raised an eyebrow. “Is it really that bad?”

No, it wasn’t really that bad. It was and is part of the journey of grief. Times of immense joy are the favorite stomping grounds of memories. And though those memories may be sad and will often bring tears for years to come, I’m eternally grateful that I have them.

And at every party from now on, there will be flowers and my own personal moment of remembrance for two of the greatest women, mothers, and hostesses I’ve ever had the intense privilege to know.

And there will be parties, Sue and Shirley. Oh, how there will be parties! And you’ll be there in my heart at every single one.

What have been your unexpected moments of grief? What ways did you find to cope?

Very few people have ever read my poetry. It’s my great intimacy. But right now, I can find no other way to express the events and emotions of the last few days. Shirley’s death clings to my soul in a cloud of words and fractured details. And it is Poetry Month, after all, so I’m going to face my fears and let the words escape the page.

I’ve been on this bereavement roller coaster before, and I know there will be many dips and turns in the days to come, but this is my current state of mind (and grief), as only my heart can tell it.

Bereavement

The Reality

The ultimate loss achieved.

The shadow of a life well lived, done.

To feel deprived of someone.

The empty weight of being bereaved.

The Dream

The vision woke my sleeping heart.

Impending death was mine to tell.

But she knew it all too well.

And had her own message to impart.

The Shock

The children played, splashing, games.

Then the wet chill. The sun, dull.

Driving home, the fated call.

Through the phone, she whispered his name.

The Storm

Memories of others flooding in.

But this time a heart break, a choice.

Last request. Century voice.

Lightening storm echoes her midnight end.

The Motions

Cross-country scramble to share

Preparations, detour feelings.

Ignore grief, turn to dealings.

Mourning on the wings of morning air.

The Emptiness

A stripped hollow of a soul

Where hot emotions should run wild.

Attend to the family and the child.

Tread carefully around the hole.

The Remnants

Her home. Final threads to tie.

A letter in the entry way.

A last note to us to say,

“Thank you,” a cleverly sealed goodbye.

Oh, to write again! Today I’ll be pouring words onto the page and trying to organize them in some meaningful sense for me and for you. In the meantime, I wrote this (rather eerie now) piece last week, before the shock of Shirley’s death, and I feel I must share it now.

The holiday apparently stirred up my subconscious more than I realized. It’s been awhile since I’ve dreamed of Sue. Until the other night.

It’s led me on a scavenger hunt down weird corridors of the Internet, searching for viable scientific information behind the meaning of dreams.

In this recent dream, Ryan and I were enjoying some relaxing one-on-one time with Sue. She had cancer and was resting, but we were confident that, with a little R&R, she’d be back on her feet again soon.

To my shock and horror, the doctor called and informed me that I had to tell Sue she was going to die within a few days. Could she have been talking about Shirley instead?

Gasping through silent sobs, I couldn’t even get the words out to tell Sue. She remained calm and comforting. It was clear that she knew what I was going to say. Sue silenced me and had but one request: To witness every little thing I could in this world and take lots of pictures to show her later. ”Mental pictures,” she said, smiling.

In life, this was a joke between Sue and Ryan. In high school, he took a trip abroad once and returned without any photos. “Why didn’t you take any pictures?” she asked, flabbergasted.”But I did, Mom. They’re all right here,” Ryan said, tapping his head.

This isn’t the only time I’ve had such a vivid dream of Sue. The first and most riveting one was right after Sue passed.

In the dream, Ryan and I were accompanying her down a long road, and there were necessary stops we had to make along the way. The first was a shack where people were turning in things they wanted to leave behind from their life on Earth. Sue was turning in her chemo wigs and new maternity clothes. (She and I had shopped for these clothes on her recent trip to Seattle. She needed the extra room because her abdomen was bloated and painful from the liver failure.) After getting rid of these painful reminders, we continued on.

Stopping along the way, she had cryptic things to show me and was visually frustrated that she wasn’t “allowed,” it seemed, to communicate these things more clearly. One was a children’s art boutique and the other was a collection of three elaborate boxes containing treasures she could not reveal.

As we continued further, we saw other people in the distance, on their own paths advancing forward. Ryan asked Sue if those people could see her (since even in the dream, we all knew she was dead), and if so, how they saw her. “How do you see me?” she asked. To which he replied that, from the many pictures we’d rifled through lately, it looked like she was about 30 years old. She was greatly amused by this. “That makes the mother younger than the son,” she teased.

And that was it. There was a brief moment of urgency and even a little fear on all our parts as we realized this dream was snapping shut. And then she was gone.

Most of the metaphors in these dreams are rather obvious. (I once heard a psychologist say that’s often the case with writers.) But I am increasingly curious about the science behind it, particularly after discovering that several of Sue’s family and friends have had such encounters, too.

It makes sense that dreaming would be a natural cognitive way for our brains to process tragedy and grief. So why haven’t I been able to find good, credible psychological studies of this sort online? (All while trying to avoid the mine field of virus-lurking new age sites, mind you.)

UCSC.edu has a ton of papers and scholarly info, which helped, but it seems they all merely shoot down theories rather than acknowledging plausible ones.

From there I learned about Dr. Patricia Garfield’s theory of 29 “Universal” dreams (SCSU debunked it), but my dream wasn’t even on the list. Of course, Freud had a lot of theories on dreams, but I couldn’t find anything specific to grieving. Interestingly, he also claimed that all significant words spoken in a dream are from words you’ve read or heard spoken. That would make sense with Sue’s “mental pictures” comment, but not her joke about appearing younger than Ryan. Likewise, Freud’s famous claim that “wish-fulfillment is the meaning of each and every dream” does hold true in the sense that I got to spend time with Sue (or her likeness), but the theory falls apart when she dies at the end. If it were true wish fulfillment, wouldn’t my mind alter reality, so she could continue living in the dream?

Jung also had his theories of dreams, stemming from his belief in a “collective unconscious” and archetypes of our shared life story. (These theories are the basis for Professor Joseph Campbell‘s enlightening lectures on religion, history, culture, and storytelling. If you haven’t seen his “The Power of Myth” interviews on PBS, you really should.) Considering my dreams in a Jungian light certainly explains the obvious nature of the metaphors, but it fails to explain why the brain needs to play out such virtual realities. (Or the premonition nature of this most recent dream, but I feel crazy even going “there.”)

So where does that lead me? Apparently, nowhere. Maybe some errant psychology grad will stumbled upon this and point me in the right direction? Or maybe you could confirm you’ve had such an experiences, so I feel less cuckoo?

Regardless of the meaning, or even the sadness, it was worth it to have the “mental picture” of being in her presence again.

And, yes, Sue. I’m taking LOTS of pictures. For you and for Shirley.

Sue, host of my Easter baby shower 2010

Thanks to my poetry post on Friday, I found the following poem in my inbox this morning. My favorite line: “We see your raised face/at both sides of a day.”

We miss our loved ones so much more than just the holidays, though those days are the punctuation marks in that longing. If you’re missing someone today, may you find a bit of him or her in all those places you’re looking.

Love, Angela

Haunted
by Naomi Shihab Nye

We are looking for your laugh.
Trying to find the path back to it
between drooping trees.
Listening for your rustle
under bamboo,
brush of fig leaves,
feeling your step
on the porch,
natty lantana blossom
poked into your buttonhole.
We see your raised face
at both sides of a day.
How was it, you lived around
the edge of everything we did,
seasons of ailing & growing,
mountains of laundry & mail?
I am looking for you first & last
in the dark places,
when I turn my face away
from headlines at dawn,
dropping the rolled news to the floor.
Your rumble of calm
poured into me.
There was the saving grace
of care, from day one, the watching
and being watched
from every corner of the yard.

Day 1: Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres with Sue’s dearest friends

Day 2: A grand holiday family dinner

Day 3: Coffee hour at home with her company friends

Given that Sue couldn’t even eat and could barely get out of bed, we obviously expressed our concerns over this full itinerary. But she was insistent. We had a lot to celebrate. She wanted the chance to show off her new granddaughter to all of those closest to her. We couldn’t deny her that.

So she delegated, and we all made it happen. On Saturday, Ryan, his sisters, and I got the house ready. We found the nice linens, arranged the flowers, lit the candles, and pulled out the fine china.

Even though we were doing the foot work, she was throwing these parties, and we wanted the details to reflect that. As a hostess, Sue always went above and beyond, adding touches of beauty and thoughtfulness to make people feel extra special. That was her signature … in party hostessing and in life. And we were determined to live up to it.

Her friends helped, too. They brought the food and, of course, the wine. They passed the baby and made merry. They even cleaned up afterward. Sue simply had to navigate the stairs (no small feat at that point), sit, smile, and take it all in.

On Sunday, round two. Again, there were linens to iron, tables to set, and centerpieces to make. With Sue’s permission, we ordered a catered Thanksgiving meal from the grocery store. We tried to keep the menu as true to Sue’s signature dishes as possible: turkey, ham, potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, deviled eggs, and of course, apple pie. She sat at the head of the table, thankful, a smile belying her pain. Though she wasn’t able to eat, she savored the joy of this holiday meal, the last one we would share together.

And for dessert: Sue got to see Szaba take her first bite of real food, mashed potatoes. It was the last “Szaba first” that Sue ever got to see.

Afterward the grandkids all camped out in Sue’s room, where she could be more comfortable. Sue watched as they gathered around Szaba on the blanket on the floor, laughing, playing, and getting to know their new cousin. We spent the night watching movies, looking at photo albums, and telling family stories. Even at her sickest, she was radiant there in the midst of her adoring family.

In the morning, we prepared to greet her friends from work. Pots of coffee were made, muffins were stacked, juice was poured, and pretty plates and mugs were gathered.

Her good friend and part-owner of the company, concerned about exhausting Sue, sent the visitors over in small batches of two or four. They came into her room (so she could stay comfortable), exchanged pleasantries, admired Szaba, and asked if there was anything they could do. Many were shaken by her appearance, but Sue smiled, laughed, and was ever the hostess, doing her best to make them feel comfortable.

Ten days later, all of Sue’s organs would shut down. But here and now, she was doing what she did best: hosting, being a friend, showing her love for loved ones, and bringing happiness into people’s lives.

A week and a half later, as we were going through her things, we found two lists at the end of a notebook by her bed. One said “Snowflake Ornaments”and listed the dozens of work friends who had stopped by that morning for coffee and a hug. Those ornaments were packaged and waiting for their recipients in her closet. The other list said “Special Ornaments” and included the names of all the friends and family who had joined her on Saturday and Sunday for cocktails and dinner. Though we looked everywhere, we never could find those “Special Ornaments.” I like to think our last weekend with her—in her element, doing was she wanted, and showing us her love—was the “Special Ornament” she wanted to give us.

One year later, I hold that ornament again and show it to all of you. I admire it today just as I did then, just as I will for every holiday to come, and just as Szaba will someday.

The moral of the story: CELEBRATE! Don’t let the bad overshadow the glad in your life. Don’t let the hustle and bustle keep you from what’s most important this month and every month: enjoying each other and enjoying life.

And for those of us who’ve recently lost a loved one, especially around the holidays, my heart reaches out to you. Don’t be afraid to revisit those memories you shared. For like holiday lights twinkling through a window on a cold winter’s night, they can bring you comfort and joy.

The saying goes: When it rains, it pours. Well, with the drizzled onslaught of fall at my doorstep—and all the memories that come flooding back with it—I have a new appreciation for that phrase.

Last year at this time, Sue was here. Not just here on Earth, but physically HERE, in my house. Her fleece, book, robe, and slippers await where she left them in our guest room. Her e-mail about how excited she was to visit still sits expectantly in my inbox. Memories of my daughter’s first Halloween, jack-o-lantern, and costume all come along with Sue, smiling (and for the first time visibly ill) in their ranks.

When I heard “the holidays are hard,” I remember thinking, “They just haven’t gotten over it yet,” as if grieving were a disease to be cured. It’s more like being reborn without skin or growing an appendage overnight and trying to figure out how to maneuver through life with that in tow.

But the truth is, I’d rather have Sue in tow than not, no matter how painful “the missing” is. Tomorrow we have our seventh-annual “Pumpkin Day”—a personally created Iron-Chef-like holiday of which Sue was a participant and perhaps its biggest fan. I almost feel like we constructed personal bits of happiness like Pumpkin Day, knowing the residual joy they would bring her. If that’s true, I have no reason to believe that death would impede that conduit of happiness. If so, Happy Pumpkin Day, Sue. You will be missed.