Looking forward, looking back. An open letter to Kevin on Christmas Eve

Dear Kevin,

I am missing you terribly right now. Four years ago today we were trying to do all the things we usually did on Christmas Eve: We mulled wine, you put on Christmas music, we stayed in pajamas for as long as we could, we wrapped presents. We admired the Christmas tree and decided against any last minute shopping. We were trying to pretend it was normal, but it wasn't. This was the first Christmas Eve when we wouldn't be seeing the kids the next day, so the present pile was pretty small. We were also both so careful with you. You were so sick. We didn't know yet that this was our last Christmas together.

In some ways I am grateful for that ignorance. Had we known earlier, had you been diagnosed a month or two before, that Christmas would have been consumed by treatment and celebration around the edges. It is so unlikely it would have saved your life; at best it would only have prolonged it by a few months.

That's the story I tell myself, anyway. The guilt is sometimes still pretty intense, that I didn't insist on a CT scan earlier, that I didn't scream at you to go to the ER sooner. I can see you grimacing at me, reminding me that I did the best I could. Some days I know that. Some days I think I would do anything for those extra few months.

Today, four years later, I am in my new home in Minnesota. My new love C is driving his mother across several states so she can spend Christmas with us. I am not going to Boston because my mom needs me here. In Minnesota. (I can see you looking horrified that I moved north, into the cold.) Dad died a year and a half ago. Is he with you? Will you see Christmas in together, watching over all of us from Boston to Minnesota to California? I hope so.

Not long before you died, you asked me to promise you that I would be okay. I promised, knowing it was a lie. Now I know it was and was not. I am okay. And I am not. I feel as though I have become the embodiment of Whitman's, Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.

I think that's part of the essential nature of loss. If we let ourselves love deeply then we will, at some point, experience grief. We will never be the same. If we are lucky then we have a chance to build something new, but the broken parts never go away. I have become the city of Troy, built and buried then built again upon the shards.

I know you are still extant in some way but not the way I yearn for, even as I know if you were I would not have the wonders in my life now. It is an odd tension to hold. Very well, then I contradict myself. I want both.

Tonight C and I will have dinner with our mothers. We will go to our home, full of things you would find familiar and new, and wrap presents. I will admire the shimmering lights and the soft blur from tears. I will look for you in the lights. We will drink hot cider and celebrate life in this broken world. I will love you both, and find myself living two lives simultaneously. What else is there to do but live, love, and be grateful?

I love you and always will,
Laura
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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Relentless cheer? I'll be in my pillow fort.

Sure, the songs say it's the most wonderful time of the year, but I often find the holiday season to be challenging and stressful. This isn't just because I find it very triggering for grief, it's because I have to deal with so many people all of the time and they are telling me I should be happy because it's Christmas. It's harder to find the quiet time I need to function well and I'm more likely to feel guilty about claiming it as needed. I'm not sure why, all I really need to do is go home and make a pillow fort, but something about the relentlessness of it all makes it seem as if I'm being a spoilsport by taking the time I need for my own mental health. This year in particular is difficult because it feels as though I am walking on cultural glass all the time; we have become so ready to demonize one another.

I love giving gifts. I love celebrating with the people I love. I love the foods and some of the music and even the lights. I just don't want to feel as if there is a mandate to consume and smile on demand.

None of this is to say I want to be a Scrooge. Most of the time I'm reasonably cheerful and relish the joy of others. If you love Christmas, that's great! I just don't always want to love it with you or at least not in technicolor-90-decibels-comply-comply-comply.

Maybe this is because I miss Kevin fiercely this time of year. Maybe it's because, as a non-Christian, I feel a bit excluded from the festivities. Maybe it's because I worry that if I actually wish someone a Happy Hanukah I'll both be at risk and will make someone else feel embarrassed. Maybe it's just because I'm tired of the constant messages that we should be HAPPY!

I don't always want to be merry and bright. Sometimes I just want to curl up with a cup of tea and read. Other times I find I can savor a bad mood for a while and want to be quietly grumpy. Sometimes in the privacy of my own home, I might even let my lower lip stick out a little and stomp while I walk. And sometimes I just want to marvel at the stars in the winter sky and be grateful for the world without having to ascribe a particular meaning to it.

Do we really need a holiday to be nice to one another? Must we wait for one time of the year to spend time with those we love? Is it required that we schedule cheer by the calendar? I hope not. I'd like to think I am kind to people most of the year. I try to spend time with those I love. My calendar is full of all kinds of reminders of joy. So, for the moment, you can find me over here, wrapped in a blanket, idly reading a book and maybe nibbling on just a little bit of peppermint bark while I ponder just how many latkes I will make on tonight.
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www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Sometimes things just suck

Oh, I am in a mood.

Looked at objectively, things aren't bad. I have work I love that pays my bills, most of the time anyway. I am in a relationship with a sweet, smart man who loves me more than I often think I deserve. I have family and friends who care about me. I am generally healthy, my needs are met and I really don't have anything to complain about.

Not that this will stop me. Does it every really stop anyone?

I miss Kevin ferociously. The loss is tearing at me. All I want to do is curl up, watch tv, eat. I am numbing myself in any way I reasonably can. Part of this is the uncertain future, some because we are in the dark time of the year and I've always had a touch of seasonal affective stuff, but more of it is that it is the holiday season and Kevin is gone.

This mood is manifesting in some interesting ways. I have a stronger flinch response than usual. I feel terribly needy, craving assurance at every turn. I'm incredibly tired despite sleeping more than enough. I'm clumsy and find I need to be much more mindful of where I am physically. I'm having some truly epic nightmares. Each of these symptoms tells me that I'm grieving more actively than usual, even though they are different from symptoms I've experienced before. I know it comes in waves and I know this will pass. Right now it just feels crummy.

I've been hesitant to give voice to this because I'm tired of listening to myself whine. Part of me has bought the idea that I should be okay, that I should be able to handle this myself. None of that is true. At the best of times we need support and help, humans don't thrive in vacuums. During harder times we need the support even more, but that can be when it's hardest to ask.

I think I've also been hesitant to name these feelings because that makes it more real. It also means that I will have to contend with some well-meaning but poorly executed support. Someone told me yesterday to cheer up because it was Christmas and no one should be sad at Christmas time, it's Christ's birthday! I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I thought a lot of things; you don't know me or what's going on, I'm Jewish, politics... I said nothing. I kept my mouth shut and reminded myself that she was well-intended.

So what helps when I feel this way? Naming it. Owning it. Saying to myself and the world that yes, my life is rich and yes, right now things suck, that helps. Asking for a bit of latitude helps. Reminding myself that I am not alone helps.

I have been rereading some of my writing over the last almost three years (that alone is a spear in my side) and that helps too. Reminding myself that I have survived this far. Reminding myself that these feelings come in wave and the only way out is through. Reminding myself that Kevin was and is in my heart. Reminding myself that, above all, I am so lucky to have loved and been loved so well.

With this in mind, I can truly remember that things aren't that bad even if they feel awful in this moment. I have work and love and family and health. This sorrow is the price I willingly pay for the radiant love I have experienced and am experiencing.

May all of our holidays show us the light in the darkness, even when the dark threatens to overwhelm us.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Finding the holiday spirit

I know people who love this time of year. The day after Thanksgiving, or maybe even before, they are decorating, planning, wearing brightly colored sweaters and more. Whether Christmas is a religious or secular event, they are thrilled that it's the holiday season.

I am not one of these people. Please don't think I'm a Scrooge, bah-humbugging everyone's fun, but Christmas isn't that big a deal to me. When I was a child I loved Santa, the tree, and the gifts. As I grew older I loved (and still love) finding gifts for those I cherish, but I became more aware of the complexities of Christmas. For one I'm not Christian, so the season sometimes feels a bit oppressive. For another it was often a time of family stress. Christmas began to be associated with careful navigation through hazardous waters and an increasing frustration with commercialism.

As an adult I finally found some Christmas spirit through rituals Kevin and I developed. We hosted a big open house every year. I loved and still love filling the kids' (now adults) stockings. I enjoyed the ritual of finding and cutting down a tree. None of it really felt like mine, but it was a fun thing to be a part of and a great opportunity to show people that I love them.

Then Kevin got sick. By this time in 2013 we knew something was seriously wrong but we didn't know how bad it was. Christmas now hold memories of the last weeks we had together before his diagnosis. Since his death, my stepkids and I have developed some wonderful new rituals, but it still feels a little strange for all that it is also loving and warm.

I know just how lucky I am because I know what I have lost. Christmas is now a mixture of love and sorrow.

So how do I navigate this time of year? How do I find holiday spirit so I at least won't be a drag for those who love Christmas beyond all else? This year I'm looking for the stories. I'm reminding myself of all the good times, all of the love and light and laughter. This is, of course, what we do at the holidays. We tell each other stories, the same ones we've been telling for years. They are part of the holiday ritual now.

My holiday stories are about spilled wine, unsteady menorahs, finding the right tree, baking bread, playlists, welcomed strangers, losing electricity, merged traditions, teaching the kids to gamble by playing dreidl, sledding miracles and more. For you the stories may be about a child being born, shelter from the cold, family and friends and sweaters that just didn't fit. I don't know yours and you don't know mine, but I do know these stories are lights in the darkness. They are stories of hope and love and faith in something when the world is cold and unwelcoming.

Keep telling your stories. Keep listening. They are our guideposts to find a deeper kind of holiday spirit than anything you can buy in a store.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Repost: Tips for the holidays

This post was originally published just about a year ago, but it still holds true. The holidays can be difficult for everyone and especially so for those who are mourning a loss. Whether you are just months out, years or decades, the holidays trigger memories of our loved ones who are no longer here and make the absence feel more acute. What follows are some thoughts about how to help ourselves and others who may be grieving as we move through the holiday season. Or really at any time.

Be kind to yourselves. We are all doing the best we can.

Laura, November 2016



What follows was originally published in November of 2015. It has been slightly modified. Copyright Laura S. Packer

I've written before about the struggle of the bereaved during the holidays. I wanted to take a moment and remind everyone that this time of year is tough. There are so many memories and expectations. We remember the things we did with those we loved, the rituals we will never engage in again because the key person is dead. We are surrounded by imagery of and pressure to have the best holiday ever, even when what we really want is to curl up and be left alone.

Here are some quick tips to keep in mind if you are grieving or care for someone who has experienced a loss. These are, of course, from my point of view, but I hope it will be helpful.

1. Recognize the pain. If I recognize my own pain, instead of trying to bury it, then it becomes easier to bear and something I can share with others who care about me. When my pain is recognized I feel as though my experience is legitimate. 
2. Recognize the joy. It's okay to celebrate and feel grateful, happy or joyful. Our loved ones would want us to cherish the holidays and our lives just as we cherish their memories.
3. Don't try to cheer me up. Let me feel sad. It won't last forever and I have good reason to grieve. If my sorrow makes you feel uncomfortable that's not my problem. If you can sit with me and listen while I'm sad that may help more than anything else. 
4. Grief is non-linear. There are no corners to turn, no bill boards that will announce GRIEF AHEAD or NO MORE GRIEF IN SIGHT. I may seem fine one moment and the next tear up. Laughter, tears, chattiness, quiet are all part of grieving because they are all part of life. If I start crying it's not your fault. It likely has nothing to do with you, it's just another wave of grief. 
5. Don't pretend my loved one didn't exist. Let me talk about him. Bring him up yourself and see how I react. I don't want the world to forget him. 
6. Let me have time to myself. Or not. Give me options and help me figure out what is best in this given moment.
7. You don't know how I feel. In any given moment I might be feeling eviscerated AND grateful that I had the time I did with him AND happy to be with you. It's complicated. Instead of assuming, ask. Each loss is different and we all need be honored in our own grief.
8. Help me take care of myself. Please don't nag because I'm eating another piece of pie. Instead offer to go for a walk with me. Let me take care of myself as best as I can.
9. And if I'm seeming okay, let me be okay. If I'm laughing and smiling it doesn't mean I'm all better, it means I feel okay in this moment. Isn't that great? It doesn't mean I grieve him any less, it means I am figuring out how to live in the afterlife.

This is by no means comprehensive. It's what I'm thinking of off the top of my head. What helps you through the holiday season? I'd love to know.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Halloween: My beloved dead

Today is Halloween. I've always loved Halloween. When I was a kid I would spend many days planning my costumes; to this day my favorite may be the year I dressed as a shadow, all in black with filmy veils. I would stand behind people and imitate their movements which turned out to be a lot creepier than it sounds. As I grew older I became one of the adults who always has their porch light on for trick-or-treaters, even when I lived in a neighborhood where no one went out past dark.

Last year Kevin and I did what we always do - did - on Halloween. With great forbearance he would watch scary movies with me while I answered the door for trick-or-treaters. When there was a particularly wonderful costume I would yell for him to come look. Unlike previous years, last year he rarely came. He didn't feel well. We didn't yet know what that meant.

This is the world I live in now, one where every day, every commonplace event has associations with Kevin, our relationship and, from now through the end of March, with his illness. Everyone says the first year is the hardest because of all the "firsts" and I am certainly finding it challenging. I expect this year I will keep tissues handy while I answer the door.

Halloween is traditionally a time when we consider the dark. When we pay homage to the ghouls and ghosts that always surround us. Tonight we enter into Dias de los Muertos, the day of the dead and I have an alter set up for Kevin and my other beloved dead to welcome them in. In truth, this is no different than any other day for me now. What else can I do?

In some ways my life is now a perpetual Halloween. Every day I speak to the dead. Every day I pay homage to the unseen around me. Every day I welcome my beloved dead in because that is far preferable to closing the door on possibility.

Tonight I will watch scary movies, though not as scary as the ones I would watch when he was here. I will answer the door and pass out candy. I may yell for Kevin to come look at any particularly wonderful costumes and hope that he sees them. I will set out some of his favorite food and share a meal with him. I will celebrate my dead, because there is no other choice but celebration of life, even when that life has ended.

Happy Halloween.

(31 weeks. I love you.)

(c) 2014 Laura Packer

The best Valentine's Day gift

I've always had fairly skeptical feelings about Valentine's Day. When I was a little girl I pretty quickly figured out it was a popularity contest - remember delivering those tiny little cards into paper bags on everyone's desk? There was always the kid who got more than anyone else and there was always the kid who received none. Once I realized that, I decided it was a crock.

That isn't to say I want to be forgotten on Valentine's Day, but it's not that important to me. I know I am loved. Since it's not a big deal to either of us, Kevin and I give each other Valentine's Day cards and might grab a bite to eat, but really, when you've been together this long you don't need a specific day to say, "I love you," right?

This year is different.

This year Valentine's Day is being spent in the hospital. My Valentine's Day gift today was holding his hand as the first chemo infusion began to make its way into his veins. I could not ask for a better gift.

I am extraordinarily lucky, in that I don't need a holiday to remind me that I am loved and that I love. I just love. Every day. And today I can celebrate the feel of his palm on mine as we fight, together.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer