Dec 17

Dec 17 *Not pictured

Three Christmases without her. The first was only two months after she passed away. I made it through the morning to keep the magic alive for Jackson and then spent the rest of the day in bed. It was just too hard to celebrate without her, so I didn’t.

Last year we drove 12 hours to my parents house, (thank you pandemic), and I felt haunted by her at every turn. Her last Christmas had been “celebrated”there but what sticks with me was our nightly resuscitations. Specifically, a moment around 2am on Christmas morning when I had begun considering how I would tell Jackson that his sister had passed away without completely ruining Christmas for him - ah the things we think about when we’re squeezing an ambu bag in our child’s face. Thankfully, that didn’t come to pass and we celebrated Christmas together, albeit emotionally and physically spent.

This Christmas season though is feeling different - dare I say it - a little lighter. I know there will be emotional moments, that’s inevitable. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been through this twice before and I can quietly anticipate the more difficult moments. Or because I’m learning to live with my grief alongside my joy. I can’t go anywhere without my grief, it’s my constant companion, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t shove over and make room for joy.

It doesn’t make walking by the beautiful little girl holiday dresses less difficult and I’ll always miss snuggling under blankets while watching movies or seeing her eyes light up when we turn on the lights on the Christmas tree. But this year, these moments, while dark, are accompanied with a bit of light and joy as I’m able to remember how good it felt to be with her and not just how much I wish she was still here.

Maybe that sounds ridiculous, because of course I remember all the good she gifted us - after all, that’s why I miss her right? But it is easy to get so fixated on the missing that the good memories grow dark, instead of holding light like we wish they would.

I’m finding new places to get stuck, of course. This year it’s the lack of family photos - or rather, that she isn’t around to be in them. Photos that could be used in holiday cards, or family photos in front of the tree. I haven’t had professional family photos taken since Adelaide passed away - something I’m sure I will regret years from now - but I just can’t bring myself to do. To make up for it, over the last two years, I’ve come up with creative ways to include her in our non-professional family photos: a framed photo, a stuffed animal or doll, but do we do that forever? At some point do I need to accept our physical family as it is? Do I put an asterisk under the photo with a note?

*Not pictured: Adelaide Grace (age 6).

I tell myself to do what feels right in the moment, that the important thing is to get the picture. Yet, all the pep talks in the world couldn’t bring me to design a holiday card this year. Maybe I’ll have it figured out by next year.

Holiday cards and family photos aside, I am feeling stronger - no, that’s not it - I’m feeling her. I’m feeling Adelaide. I’m not finding ladybugs or other signs, it’s more of a peace, a knowing. She is with me and that it’s all ok. It’s taken over two years to get to this point and it’s not that I’m any less sad that she’s gone. I’m crying now as I type this, but I just feel a little more settled or that the sharp edges around her loss have been filed down ever so slightly.

That’s the thing, the pain itself never goes away. I don’t think I understood that when I first started on this grieving journey. I was terrified that someday the pain wouldn’t be there and as result I would lose all of Adelaide that I have left. So I clung to the pain as if I was clinging to Adelaide’s very essence. But now I know that the pain will always be there and in a totally backwards bizarre way that is comforting. I don’t have to worry about losing it, or rather, losing her, in that way.

With the edges softened there is now room for joy to fill in. I can be sad that Adelaide is no longer here to enjoy the twinkling lights on the tree AND let my heart fill with the memory of her contentedly gazing up at them. This holiday season I will practice letting my contradictory emotions coexist so that there is no need for distinction between my tears of grief and joy. I will learn to rest a little easier knowing that Adelaide is with me in ways that I cannot explain - not pictured but always there.