A Different Kind of Loss

The first Christmas after my son died, I couldn’t put up decorations. Christmas was a challenge to be endured rather than an anticipated event.  We, as a family, talked and shared memories about Andrew. We honored the traditions; opening presents, chattering to each other. We ate a lot. We talk about that Christmas as “we got through it.” 

The second Holiday season was harder and easier. I had a template of how to do it. At the same time, I realized Christmas would always tinged with loss. I grieved the loss of our family; the sense of everyone being together for Christmas.  We again chose to spend Christmas away from home. Christmas became smaller and less important. That worked for us.  

 The next couple Christmas’s (we’re at 5 this year) became a pattern.  I am now able to put up some decorations in the house. The tree, with handmade ornaments, has stayed impossible. I now say, when there are children, I’ll consider having Christmas at home.  

 There has been some pushback. Relatives saying out loud they want to see us at Christmas. We have invited them to ours up north. That hasn’t worked as a solution. Someone asked when this different Christmas “would be over” as if my grief, and my families loss would end. Hurtful but… 

 I think those comments come from seeing us grieving and wanting us to feel better. To me, it’s flawed thinking. I do feel better. Christmas remains difficult. Full of memories and longings for my son Andrew to be here again. He was such a big funny happy person. He loved Christmas. What helps me is to know he is in our hearts and watching out for us still. But this comfort doesn’t much touch the reality of the season.. he isn’t here, creating new memories.  

 People have different experiences with the loss of a child. Different ways of grieving, different stages. I don’t believe my grief will end. Which goes against some mental health perspectives.  

 What has worked for me is to accept my suffering. Accept that I will always grieve. This acceptance made life better; I am able to be happy. I am able to look forward to the legacy of my son. He was a happy person. He would want me, all of his family to be happy. To seek happiness. To laugh more. 

 I have accepted Christmas in a new form. Periods of happy times;  watching the gift opening and the music, the games, the food. Times with some real pain going on inside.  

 So here’s the advice I offer to you, the grieving person. Honor yourself. Honor your feelings. The people who love you are not you. They often struggle between fear of their own losses, sadness at watching you, and impatience or even resentment at the way you have changed. Let them have their feelings. Challenge your feelings of shame, the thought that you need to put on a happy face, to make it easier for them.  

Loss is a messy business. Full of feelings. It’s also a part of life.  Every Christmas, rooted in family traditions, should be different. I challenge the expectation we should just “go on” as if nothing happened. Something big happened. Loss should change us. Not overwhelm us. At least not always overwhelm us.   

The first year I cried in front of strangers, neighbors, in stores, and out on a walk. I overshared. I worked, I compartmentalized, I numbed out. I wrote in a journal. I meditated. I exercised. It all helped a little bit. There were hours where I felt significantly better. They didn’t last. My grief and loss comes in waves. The waves are less intense now. Happiness, joy, my sense of humor, my signature curiosity have come back. That said, I’m not the same.  

Since my son’s death, I have learned the cliche, that life can change in an instant is deeply true. I have done more, gone more places, challenged my fears, laughed at myself, lost friends, gained friends, and more openly loved the people I love.  

Creating a legacy to my son has helped me meet many people, expand my definitions of loss, gain positive perspectives, and practice gratitude. All are helpful in this new landscape. I’ve also felt jealousy at others easy talk about their children, been angry at the universe, and felt misunderstood and alone.  

My parents passed away before my son. I miss them. I talk about them. I talk to them sometimes!  For me, the loss of a child is like being in an entirely different country. Different language, different landscapes. I’ll share two parts which I don’t see enough about in the world.  

When I became a parent, my wiring changed. I felt a biological imperative to keep my children alive at all costs; even at the cost of my own life. I failed to keep my son alive. Those are the facts to me. I comfort myself knowing I tried every way I could. But denying the failure, denying the imperative just didn’t work. What worked was accepting I failed. From failure came forgiveness. I continue to work on forgiving myself for that failure.  

We have to work with regret in loss. We all made mistakes. We continue to do so. “What if” is not a helpful phrase. What if I did this or that? The truth is you will never know if that would have worked or helped. Try not to beat yourself up with what if… Even if “it” worked or helped someone else.  

Lastly, I offer comfort. Know as you stand with your family this Holiday season following your traditions, you are not alone. There are many people with you. Give yourself credit for showing up, for accepting this holiday is different, for bearing joy and sadness in the same body. Know every house has losses. Honor those who are not here with a toast, a memory, a joke.  As Andrew would say, “Come on! Let’s go open presents!” 

The preceding article was solely written by the author named above. Any views and opinions expressed are not necessarily shared by GoodTherapy.org. Questions or concerns about the preceding article can be directed to the author or posted as a comment below.