Decembers

Coincidence or not, I rummaged through older writing pieces and landed on this one, which I will share with you momentarily. It was written last December 22, on my late husband’s birthday anniversary. The day he died is also in this month. December 7. It will be three years this year.

Will I always mark time by Decembers? Both his birth and death month? I will not be surprised if I do. I know I mark where I am in my grief. How far I’ve come. How I feel healed and how there are scars, still tender. There is a part of me that has preferred to have my life back with my husband, preventing me from allowing any new life in. That part of me I’ve also judged and felt as damaged. Inflexible. Still wounded and healing. Sealed up and safe from the world to touch and/or for me to infect. Over the past few weeks, this subject has come up in conversations with a friend. And even though it is still a tender matter, talking about it has allowed some unconscious processing to happen. It's changed how I see it. It is a part of me, not damaged. Just a part of who I am. It’s part of the grieving process. It’s acceptance, my friend tells me this morning on our walk. And I have to agree.

It’s such an interesting observation of myself, to see this part of me that didn’t allow me to feel whole, now is part of the whole that I feel. There is no longer shame, nor judgment for feeling that if I had a choice, I’d choose my life back with my husband. There is no guilt in indulging thoughts of how rich life would be if he were here, playing with his granddaughter. It puts a smile on my face. Of course, it’s sad. But it’s no longer all sad. It’s mixed with gratitude for having him in my life. With a sense of celebration for all of the experiences I’ve known because of him. To me, that’s a pretty good place to be as I mark three years of your passing tomorrow, Malcolm Holmes.

Sippy Cups and Comfort Zones

December 22, 2021

Chloe, my late husband's two-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter, fell asleep so heavily in my car, her limbs were lifeless. We just drove back from playtime at the pool. Her mom told me she'd been cranky, but I hoped the pool would change all that. All morning she'd ask when we were going to the pool. "It's a bit too early, Chloe. But soon," I'd say.

On the way to the pool, she started the car-ride game. "Are we going to...the store?" She'd ask. "Noooo" I'd say, both knowing all along the real answer. A few more questions were asked and when the right question was asked and the answer is given, we'd both laugh and laugh.

"I got this," I thought. The crankiness...all gone! Whatever was ailing us, we got it under control.

We held hands walking into the locker room where we also played the chase-me-to-change-my-clothes game. I only watch Chloe two times a week for her mom, so I'm pretty patient to play this game. More patient than I ever remember being with my own kids. Besides, it was another tactic to avoid the undercurrent we both had going on.

Today was an anniversary day of my husband's. His birthday. He never liked celebrating it so we downplayed the day. I have to admit, I sometimes forgot when it was his birthday the whole time we were married. I remembered it today because it caught me in the throat and it felt like a damn, ready to break all day.

All this prolonged pool prep time was a fine and sweet distraction for me and was also buoyed by her excitement to get in the pool. I could play this game all day.

Once in the pool, it did not take long for Chloe to say she wanted to go home. I distracted her by pretending we were in a car in the pool, swooshing her around, which could guarantee a smile or a laugh. And then the kind lifeguard offered us some floaty toys. We got a good 45 minutes in before she was done.

A few sneezes and general tiredness popped up throughout our pool time. So her deep sleep did not surprise me once we got home. To my home. She woke up in the house, not quite sure why she was there. We both forgot her beloved, favorite sippy cup at her house. I gave her a regular plastic cup of requested milk, which spilled almost immediately, all over the floor.

I don't know who made up the phrase don't cry over spilled milk, but I hate it. The fear of spoiled milk forever wafting in the air immediately takes over. My annoyance was enough to turn Chloe's mouth into a pout, and announce "I want mom". Her mom and I have come to understand this many times means, "I want something other than this." She'll say it right to her mom. Both of us have to work at not smiling at her utter cuteness.

But this time, I could feel her discomfort, feeling too far from comfortable. She was then able to say what she really needed. "I want you." Which means, "I need you to not be annoyed. I need you to make me feel safe."

So I picked her up gently, no longer caring about the potential smell of spoiled milk, or anything else for that matter. Her head nestled into my shoulder. The warmth of our chests against each other simultaneously melted our hearts. After a few seconds of just holding down this reset button, I knew what we needed. Holding her in my arms, walking down the hallway, I grabbed her tablet. We left my hyper dogs outside the bedroom door and snuggled close to watch whatever she wanted. She landed in her comfort zone and that is where we stayed for the last hour of our day together. I messaged her mom to not bother knocking, to just come in, to my bedroom.

She opened the door quietly, "You know the dogs got into a paper bag, and it's all over the floor."

"Yeah, okay," I said with a weary sigh.

She smiled, seemingly understanding the chaos outside the door took less priority than why we were barricaded in the bedroom.

Today, I felt a lot like Chloe did. Not feeling quite right and trying all day to find my comfort zone. I didn't know what I needed. I wanted to feel securely at home and the slightest thing could push me off base. I miss my husband like missing a favorite sippy cup, to keep me or bring me back to a reality I remember.

Maybe Miss Chloe and I finally found our comfort zones, leaving everything outside my bedroom door, taking in the soothing pastel colors and melodic sounds of Cocomelon, cuddled in each other's arms, on this unrelenting December day.