Entry 010
It’s the week of Christmas. This used to be the most wonderful time of the year, now it’s just another painful reminder of what—of who—we don’t have here with us. This is supposed to be a time to rejoice but I just want to cry or scream or lock myself in my room. The jolliest days for most feel the heaviest for me.
I should be walking into our family gatherings with my baby. Or pregnant. It depends on which pregnancy is being referred to. This time last year, I had two angel babies. Now I have four. This should have been three of our babies’ first Christmas on this earth.
Our Christmas card should have a picture of our baby on it. Instead, we’re sending out a New Years card because it feels wrong wishing you a merry Christmas when ours will be the most unmerry yet.
Family members should be asking to hold my baby and if we’ve been getting any sleep, or telling me how cute my growing bump is. Instead, our arms will be empty and it’ll get quiet when I walk into a room.
I should be getting to watch my baby’s eyes fill with awe and curiosity when they see Christmas lights for the first time. Instead, we’ll light a candle in their memory.
When you ask me what I want for Christmas, I’ll lie. I’ll give you a list of items that seem so meaningless—it’s not that those particular items mean nothing, but things in general just seem not to anymore. Because all I really want is my babies. I want answers. I want to hear something from a doctor that is promising for once. But I know I can’t have those things so I’ll ask for sweaters instead.
Another holiday means yet another day of coming up with excuses to leave the gathering early because the smallest comment or question or TV commercial busts the flood wall holding the tears behind my eyes. And I’d rather be thought of as the person who left before dessert than the person who brought the mood down for everyone.
Underneath our tree should be overflowing with gifts with our child’s name on the tag. Instead, the babies’ names are the only ornaments on our tree because nothing else comes close to being as important as them.
I should be celebrating the beauty of the season and all the hope and cheer it brings. But it feels impossible to find the happiness when I should be starting new traditions with my husband and our child. And when the shred of joy finds me, it’s followed by guilt for being happy when our babies are dead.
You’re supposed to spend holidays with people you love. My husband and I are missing two-thirds of our family. Four of the people I’d most want to spend the day with are gone. This week nor any other holiday will be complete ever again.
If this Christmas doesn’t look the way you thought it would—the way it should—I see you. If you feel you need someone’s permission to excuse yourself from the table or room or event entirely when the grief becomes too heavy (which you don’t, by the way) you have mine. If you feel equally sad and guilty for not being happy during the holidays, your feelings are valid. If this season is bringing a pain you never thought you’d feel, I’m here with you.
Emily Lindquist