Ten Strategies To Cope Without Your Child During the Holidays

The holidays haven’t been the same since my son died seven years ago. By holidays, I mean Christmas. But every anniversary or celebration is different now. It’s just that Christmas is one of the hardest.

When he was little, I wondered about tiny details: how did they style his hair or what did their Christmas tree look like. Were there piles of presents? Did they wear matching woolen sweaters? I imagined Norman Rockwell-esque scenes staged against a backdrop of hand-strung popcorn garland and neighborhood caroling. A couple of months later an update would arrive with photographs to fill in those details.

But the first winter after he died, I struggled to reconcile the fact that I was a birth mother who’d never spent a holiday with her child and a grieving parent who would never see her child again. I snapped back and forth between lost opportunities and our stolen future. I was angry. I was sad. I was lost. I wanted a way to connect to him but didn’t know how.

I thought about his adoptive family and hoped they were faring better than I was, but then jealousy sidled its ugly nose into the mix, leaving a snotty trail of bitter tears and self-loathing in its wake. They’d had years with him, and I had none.

What could I do? How could I escape the torment in my soul?

I scoured the internet for resources and tools to ease my pain. Some helped, some didn’t, but I used what worked and tucked away the lessons for later use.

Since then, I’ve refined my list and I’d like to share it with you. One grieving parent to another.

It doesn’t matter the reason for your child’s absence: if you’re a birth parent with little or no contact or a grieving parent navigating the new reality that your child will never come home. Nor does it matter if this is your first holiday without your child or your twentieth. If you are grieving, I am sorry. But, maybe, something on my list will help you.

1.      Give yourself a break. Grieving takes a mental, physical, and spiritual toll. If you can, find ways to nurture yourself. Take a long bubble bath or a nap or go outside for a walk. If you have other children, and are able to, get a sitter and have some ‘me time.’

2.      Take care of your physical health. Eat right, drink lots of water and get enough sleep. But don’t deny yourself small pleasures either. In moderation, a piece of home-made fudge, a glass of eggnog, or a hot toddy can bring a bit of joy to a solemn moment.

3.      Don’t let others dictate how you should feel or act. If you don’t want to celebrate or participate in certain activities, let your loved ones know you need a little space and ask for their support.

4.      If you are prone to anxiety attacks, have a plan. Call a support person who can remind you to breathe and talk you through to the other side. And spend time with people who understand, avoid those who don’t. You deserve support and understanding.

5.      Give yourself permission to indulge in old photos, letters, or videos of your child, and go ahead and cry.

6.      Perhaps you aren’t feeling particularly emotional. That’s okay too. There will be times in your grieving cycle when you feel dull and listless, which is perfectly normal.

7.      For some, talking about their child is a relief, but for others, it may be too painful. Trust your gut but know that the more you talk about your grief the easier it is to bear.

8.      Donate to a charity, or better yet volunteer. The physical act of volunteering takes your mind off your own grief, boosts mental well-being and happiness, and is a meaningful way to honor your child.

9.      Journal, paint, write a poem, crochet, play an instrument or sing a song. In essence, find a creative outlet for your swirling, chaotic, beautiful, and sometimes overwhelming emotions.

10.  Count your blessings. Begin each day by listing ten things for which you are grateful. Even the smallest things count. Research suggests that just the process of searching for positive aspects produces health benefits and a greater sense of well-being.

I lost my son shortly after reunion before we had a chance to build a relationship, and I still struggle to find peace. These are tangible steps that have helped me navigate Christmas, and maybe they will help you too.

Your heart may be broken, but it will go on beating, even if sometimes you may not want it to. And I know it’s hard, but please know you are not alone.

Clown For A Day

For more than 10 years I have been dressing up as a clown for the 4^th of July.  I’ve skipped, hopped and cartwheeled my way up and down Broadway more times than I can count, handing out event fliers and flags during the biggest little parade you could ever see: so short, in fact, that after it goes by it turns around at the end of the street to return for a second pass.  And I’ve worn the same costume every year: a pretty, girly, brightly colored polka-dotted and alternately striped, big hoop-bottomed dress, with a bright orange wig, big fuzzy bunny slippers and a Barbie umbrella.  

Kids from 0-2, often afraid of clowns, like me because, aside from my bright red nose, I’m not scary at all.  The 3-6 year olds shyly ask about my bunny slippers or Barbie umbrella while posing for pictures next to me.  Those 6 and up think I’m silly and smile at my antics.  And the adults, well, let me just saythat I’ve had my photo taken with way more adults than children while clowning around Skagway. 

Dressing up as a clown has given me something nothing else in my life ever has: unfettered joy.  When I put that costume on I am immediately transformed.  I’m no longer afraid or self-conscious or judgmental.  I’m not worried about work or what other people think.  I can be silly and goofy.  And, for those of you who don’t know me, I am not, without this super suit, a silly or goofy person.

However, this past week, I ordered a new clown costume.  Here’s why.

Just prior to the parade is the annual Skagway News Run Around, a 5k race covering the distance from one end of town to the other.  They give out awards for the fastest runners in several categories, which I’ve yet to win.  They also give out one award for best costume, so it’s the only race I’ve ever won an award in!  Before the race I stand at the starting line over-exaggerating my pre-race routine. Long slow stretches with my hooped-skirt exposing my white ruffled bottom and high loping strides while warming up next to the “real runners.” Just before the start I nose my bunny-slippered foot as close to the starting line as possible while crouching in anticipation for the starting gun.  My efforts elicit laughter and smiles from spectators and participants alike.

In 2013 it was during this pre-race performance that Tom approached, face stormy and stride purposeful.  He gently but firmly grabbed my arm and said “Let’s go.”  He said he had something to tell me, just not right there.  So I started walking with him, back towards the house, a mere two blocks away, thinking something bad must have happened at work.  His stride was brisk, his countenance stoic, and I’m thinking it’s got to be really bad.  As we walk just around the corner I see my friend and colleague walking briskly towards me too.  In a panic I turn to look at my husband who, realizing he can’t wait any longer, says “Michael passed.”

And as I crumble to the ground, unable to breathe, I float away.  And what I see as I hover above is a sad, horrible picture of a woman who has just lost her child, again, dressed in a pretty, girly, brightly colored polka-dotted and alternately striped, big hoop-bottom clown costume, with a bright orange wig, big fuzzy bunny slippers and a Barbie umbrella.  And this image is burned in my brain, and no matter what I do I can’t seem to shake it. 

I’ve tried. 

The past two years during the months leading up to the 4^th, I have cringed at the thought of having to don that costume.  In the end I convinced myself to put it on and parade down Broadway.  I cartwheeled and skipped and took photos with kids and adults alike, but behind those enormous sunglasses with the big red nose, I’ve hidden tears and sadness.  I smiled at times too, but I still couldn’t get that image out of my head.

So, I’m retiring the clown costume.  I finally decided it’s just easier to put it away, if that’s the image that keeps coming back.  I’m doing it to ease the pain but I’m also doing it because I know he would have loved that I’m a clown.  He would have loved the joy and smiles brought to so many people, not the least of all myself.  I even like to think that one day, had he lived, he would have joined me in skipping, hopping and cartwheeling down the street.  And that’s what I want to come to mind when I become a clown for the day… and I want to find my way back to that fearlessness and silliness and unfettered joy.

Me & My Crazy

I continue to find that the grief I am experiencing since he died is so similar to the grief of placing him for adoption.

I have spent a lot of time the past 25 years wondering what might have been and grieving for what would never be, and although that hasn’t changed, it’s different. Now when I wonder what it might have been like to parent, instead of shutting myself down because it’s too painful I’ve given myself permission to really consider it, and I’ve learned a painful new truth: I could have done it. Really, I could have, and we likely would have been okay. In the end, no matter what life would have thrown at us, I would have loved him and he would have loved me. And never, ever, not once, while he lived could I admit this to myself. I never could say that love was enough because there was no way I could have gone on if I had. And, consequently, this brings with it its own set of ramifications. I’ve only just begun to delve into this new phase. I don’t really like it.

There literally are moments when I think he’s still here, that it’s just the same old pain, the same crazy I’ve always felt, and then I remember it’s more than that. More.

So, there is an upside to all of this.  Hard to imagine, but true. His adoption made me realize how resilient I am. How time and time again I can come back from the edge. That edge where I can’t breathe. Where the hole in my chest feels like it will envelop me and I will disappear. Where crazy seems acceptable and even desirable. I have an intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be at the edge/on the edge and sometimes I actually enjoy being there, but I know how to turn away from it too; I know how to come back.

I think about his father, his real father, the man he grew up with. I think about him a lot.  And my heart just aches for him. I wonder how he is going to get through this. Because I believe I have an advantage. I believe that having lost him once in some ways makes it easier the second time. And I am actually grateful at times, and how crazy is that?

Surviving the Holidays… Again

For the past week or so, with the encouragement of my husband, I’ve been trying to come up with a plan for the holidays.  A plan is supposed to help me get through them without becoming a complete basket case.   But this whole process has been hard and painful and tedious.  I’ve been trying to look closely at myself and evaluate where I’m at, which has left me feeling disappointed, frustrated and angry.  

I’m disappointed that I’m such a selfish narcissistic person, irritated that I just seem to be standing still, and angry about, well, lots of things, but the biggest thing right now: that I didn’t try hard enough.  

When he was alive I just didn’t try hard enough to include him in my life.  I didn’t take every opportunity to involve him, to engage him.  I sat back and watched from a distance.  I didn’t call or write or text.  I just didn’t do enough.  And even though I know why I did it that way, and would likely approach it the same way today, I’m still feeling angry with myself.  And, as a result, yet again, I find myself feeling undeserving; that I have no right to grieve that which I did not truly appreciate.

Couple these feelings with what the literature says about how to get through holidays, things like  “keep their place at the table” or “put out your photo album to share and re-experience the good times” or “buy a gift he’d like, but give it to someone else,” and I feel paralyzed.  I can’t do any of those things.  I never had a place for him at the table.   I don’t have photos with memories attached.  I wouldn’t know what gift to get.  What it all really comes down to is this:

I didn’t let him know how important he is...

And, oh, how sad that makes me…

So, right now I’m feeling both angry and sad, but we do have a plan.   Tom & I will participate in community events, but we will keep Christmas Day to ourselves - a day reserved for a private celebration.

I will start every day with gratitude in my heart and on my lips, for what I have and for what I have been given.  I will spend time with those I love sharing laughter and creating memories to be cherished in the days ahead.  And I will let those in my life know how important they are to me, so I never have to go through this again.