Learning from the darkness

I was aware of the cosmic irony of being in the doctor's office exactly six months to the day of my last visit, the day before Larry died. Wednesday I had an appointment to get a physical and looked forward to getting acquainted with a new doctor, my former doctor having retired this summer. I took a face mask from the box by the front door and announced to the receptionist that I wasn't there because I was sick, I just happened to be sick on the day I had an appointment. 

The diagnosis was almost identical to what it was in June; sinusitis, ear infection, non-productive cough, low grade fever. The drug cocktail was slightly different, but now, four days later I can actually lie down and sleep without hacking up a lung. I am depleting my kleenex supply, the headache persists, the eyes still itch, but I am clearly on the mend.

In my working days, I took pride in my self-care tactics. When I had the flu or was running a fever, I would give myself three days to rest and heal, and get back quickly to the work of caring for others. Unless of course, it was only a post nasal drip, I ignored it until I developed laryngitis, which only happened twice on a Sunday morning.

 My decision to retire three years ago was influenced by knowing I could not care for Larry and the needs of a congregation and have anything left for myself. For three and half years, his health care was our priority. When I broke my foot and then later scheduled knee replacement, the reality of how little Larry could function as a caregiver became evident. We were often living in our own little island of denial. It seemed easier. It became complicated.

Now, feverish, coughing, blowing my nose, battling a headache, I felt bereft of skills to battle this attack on my system. I am not sure I would have bothered with an appointment, but would have just toughed it out. Sleep it off, give it time, get over it. 

And perhaps there is the lesson--time is not the only way to heal. It helps. But so does a little help from my friends (in this case a medical professional), the courage to admit the need for support, comfort, rest. It's still hard to ask. This time the universe came through.

One of our lovely family rituals is to observe the Solstice. We gather, eat, light the fire, release our pain, offer our intentions for the new year. As the light returns may we pay attention to the rhythms of the universe. I am working at appreciating what the darkness has to teach me.

This year, may Christmas come to everyone

This is not the first Christmas without a tree. 
There were the two years we were moving in January, and decided the hassle of tree decorating and the disposal process, often delayed, was more than we wanted to manage. Our day of celebration was with kids and grandkids at one of their homes, so it still felt like Christmas.

Last year was different. Larry had already been sick for a month with bronchitis when it would have been time to get the tree and trim it. Calling the paramedics frequently to help get him up from a fall and into bed had depleted my spirit. My energy was shot, and we were counting on our new annual tradition of gathering on Boxing Day with family. I have manufactured excuses this year--the growing collection of items to be discarded have blocked easy access to decorations stored in the garage; the new flooring may be delivered and installed any day now (or, I just found out, January 19); I am not emotionally ready to unearth the memories. I have kept exceptionally busy the last few weeks. No room for grief and self-pity, or for Christmas preparations.

Perhaps because yesterday was the cookie baking marathon with Abigail’s family, and their freshly cut tree was in the process of being decorated, today, memories of our first foray together to a tree farm, 36 years ago, resurfaced. Larry and I were in the “dating” stage, and to impress me and please me, he offered to take me out to look for my tree. With a 10 foot cathedral ceiling I was hunting for an eight foot tree. I believed that the right one would speak to me. Abigail came along to help with the hunt. We stopped at Dairy Queen for a hot dog on the way home. That was the year the angel ornament collection began, and by now I have more than 200 angels to fit on much smaller trees.

I also remembered that the idea of including John and Anne, not yet siblings, in the tree decorating process created some pouting and sulking. Intruders in our lives according to my oldest.  Too many changes in our lives.

This is a another season of change. Merry is a single parent, sharing kids on holidays with her ex and alone on Christmas Eve. I refuse to be alone Christmas morning. There will not be a stocking to fill, nor one filled for me. I haven’t been given a book list, picked out a new Christmas tie, or mailed Larry’s Chex Mix to our friends. There will be no new angel ornaments tied to packages.There are no new angel pins for each week in Advent. I will not have to bite my tongue to be appreciative of gifts I did not ask for, and do not need. What I really wanted was good health and more time.

And yet, singing the words to “Star Child” yesterday, “This year, this year/ let the day arrive/ when Christmas comes for everyone/ everyone alive,” I began to yearn to move through this season with the resolve to find joy, to live in joy, to share the joy of loving and being loved, to honor the memory of a kind and generous man. 

My promise to be all right, my resolve to live fully into an unknown future, my privilege to be financially secure and surrounded by family and friends are all reason to let Christmas come into my heart, into my life. 

The hope that new life, a new year, a reinvention of who I am to be in the decades to come, is reason to hold on, to persevere, to turn to life and smile.

Maybe, just maybe, the smell of fresh cut fir will help.