1

Many years ago, I lost a baby at Christmas. What a stupid euphemism — like I misplaced him. I didn’t. I know exactly where he is, exactly where he isn’t. 

It’s been more than 20 years. I don’t think of him often, not really. Every once in a while. Always with pain.

And always, always at Christmas.

It doesn’t start as thoughts, you know. My body, it just remembers. And I wish it wouldn’t, but it does.

First the pain, then the emptiness.

At some point, the brain connects the dots and tells me — hey, this is why you’re feeling like shit. You’re welcome. (I don’t actually ever say thank you.)

I have many hacks at this point to get through it all. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes I cry.

2

It helps to remember that I’m not the only one. Not the only mother to have suffered such a loss. Not the only person facing the bonhomie  of the holidays with a hidden sorrow. People don’t stop dying, fighting, leaving, suffering just because it’s Christmas.

Often, they suffer more.

3

None of this is to suggest that you shouldn’t wish me Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays. Or gift me cards and cookies.

Just, like… be ok with me not expressing unalloyed joy over the holiday season.

And cranky Aunt Augusta, who gets even more cranky over Christmas? Cut her some slack, ok? Maybe something horrid happened to her in December 1987 and she’s, you know, remembering…

4

I once wrote an entire book about horrible Sundays in December. Everything bad that happens to the characters — every single one of them — happens in December. On a Sunday.

I didn’t realize at the time why. I wasn’t offering it as biography. Or writing it in December.

5

There are many wonderful things about Christmas, of course. Setting up and decorating the Christmas tree. Watching the cat redecorate it. The pierogy making assembly line at my mom’s house. The kids enjoying their presents. All our special “we make these only once a year because they’re so much work” Christmas foods. Cards or emails from friends you haven’t heard from all year.

But also, through it all, behind it all, there’s grief. New grief. Old grief. Hidden grief.

It’s not your responsibility to fix it.

Or to avoid triggering it. You can’t. It just comes. 

Just, when it does, let me feel it.

xoxo

“Jane”