Grief and Gratitude at the Holidays
As with many, Christmases when I was a young child were wonderfully magical - large, loud, warm family feasts on Christmas Eve full with the cuisine of Southern Italy cooked by my English grandmother (Nanie) who mastered the traditional dishes of her in-laws, followed by midnight mass (the splendor and warmth of those candles lit at the end of every packed pew and the greenery and red ribbons and carols!), a visit from Santa Claus while we were at church (my aunt, who was asleep on the couch, NEVER EVEN SAW HIM!), and of course, the gifts. Nanie wrapped them beautifully with the paper folded into crisp angles and the tags would say things like "To: Amber, Love: Frosty" and "To: Amber, Love: Rudolph" and "To: Amber, Love Santa." My sister and cousins and everyone would open gifts until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer. Absolutely magical. Of course, that's not the whole story, but those are some of my most treasured childhood memories.
On my 10th birthday, I remember her exclaiming, "You're into the double digits now!" One week and one day later, she was gone after succumbing to cancer that spread from her lungs throughout her entire body. As with many deaths that come after a long decline, it felt sudden and shocking and impossible to accept. I was shattered, gutted by the news that she died. I had been so sure she was going to get better because that's what she told me. No one, at any point - not her doctor or our family or she herself - acknowledged the truth that we were not going to be able to save her life. No one accepted it; no one talked about it. We traded so much away in favor of "hope," leaving many of us with the complicated grief that comes with the unfinished business of having missed our chance to say goodbye, to learn about her deepest values and wishes for her family, to hear stories from her incredible life cut short at the age of 52.
That first holiday season without her, shortly after her death, was desolate and bleak. We ordered pizza for Thanksgiving and it felt wretched. We children voiced our frustration with the adults and begged them to get their act together and cook "real food" for Christmas. I remember a lot of fumbling and trying to do it "like Ma did." Although I appreciated the effort even then, it was miserable without her. As many of you who have loved and lost understand so deeply, things would never be the same again. I have cried gut-wrenching tears of grief for her all my life. And yet, my grief lives side-by-side with deep gratitude. I am so grateful for the abundant fruits of that love and that loss. I have grown into the woman I am today because of her life and its abrupt end.
I am grateful for the time my sister and I had with Nanie (my brother was born after she died). I am grateful for treks in the woods with a picnic basket to find a deer bed to picnic on. I am grateful for long drives to visit her mother in Lewiston and the sparkling lights of the village below as we drove along the Niagara Escarpment (and the misadventures when we played "left, right, or straight" on the way home - taking turns deciding which way to go and getting lost and stuck in the mud on the Tuscarora Nation Indian Territory). I am grateful for the freedom to create our own "milkshake" recipes with the strangest ingredients like graham cracker crumbs and raw eggs and corn syrup (along with ice cream and milk). I am grateful for colored milk (with a couple drops of food dye, a dash of vanilla, and a twisty straw). I am grateful for her homemade marble paint contraption that she made from a cutting board and a metal retaining ring (you would put a piece of paper under the ring, tighten it down against the wood cutting board, then put marbles and drops of paint of the paper and move the board around to make mixed color swirl designs). I am grateful for her thrift (she made headbands for face washing out of old underwear waist bands and had the largest ball of rubber bands I've ever seen). I am grateful for her vegetable stew and her zucchini bread and all her amazing cooking with vegetables from her garden. I am grateful for picking wild dandelions for salad and wild strawberries to make jam to give to our teachers at the end of the school year. I am grateful for her reading to us at bedtime from "The Bobbsey Twins" and "Paddington Bear" and "Heidi" and singing us lullabies while rubbing our backs (both my sister and me at the same time) until we fell asleep. I am grateful that it all lives on in me and my children and our entire family. She is a presence in our life every day.
Losing her like I did broke my heart—broke it open. Broke it open to the sadness and suffering of others. Broke it open to the fragility of life and the preciousness of our moments together. Broke it open to the need for human touch and attention and connection. Broke it open to harness the courage to face difficult places and situations and conversations. Broke it open to moving towards others in their time of need instead of staying safely out of the way.
If this season finds you holding both grief and gratitude—missing someone dearly while treasuring what they gave you—know that both belong. Your stories of loss and love, of the people who shaped you and the lessons that emerged from heartbreak, have a place here.
However you move through this season—with all its joy and sorrow, presence and absence—may you find moments of genuine connection and peace.
Remembering those whose stories live on is us, and wishing you connection and peace this holiday season.