Welp, A Holiday One

Grief can look like hypervigilance. 

This is a popular saying among Instagram grief circles, which is a whole thing. There’s a few big accounts that all us grief junkies follow. Sometimes we share posts on our IG Stories to send up like a flare -- a signal that we need help or just to feel that we see each other. Sometimes we share them to scare the normies, flashing glimpses of our grief-addled brain just to track their reactions for sport. That’s not a nice thing to do, but, like, let us have something. It’s not much fun over here. 

The hypervigilance thing is relevant to my grief during the holidays because I want to plan for the holidays so that nothing sneaks up on me. If I have to know my mom is dead, I better know everything else too. What’s hilarious (maybe not haha funny) about trying to be hypervigilant when you’re also dealing with grief is you only perceive a fraction of what’s going on. It’s beyond rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic: it’s carefully studying the best deck chair, finding the most reasonable price, and finally carting it out of the store in the year 1913. “Time for fun in the sun -- oh what’s that you say?” And then an anvil hits you.

I guess if I was writing this in, say, 2012 this would be an essay about how I have to learn to let go. “It’s not the snickerdoodles that need to be perfect: it’s our time together!” I would write. That would be the lesson I’d learn back then and immediately cue up “Call Me Maybe” on iTunes and shout “winning!” (In 2012, I used to suck.)

However, this is 2021 and the good news, I guess, is half of the holiday seasons without my mom have been during the pandemic. So white-knuckling perfection hasn’t even been an option. Even today I don’t yet know the test results that will tell me whether I can celebrate Christmas with people this year. Last week, I looked up an old email that contained some Covid results from a long time ago that I needed back then to see family. A joyous negative result I still remember flashing through my inbox. So that’s my favorite Covid results email. Take some time here to remember yours, although every Covid result is its own precious snowflake and we love them all.

I’ve been reading Hilary Mantel’s The Mirror and the Light, which is her third novel set during the reign of Henry VIII. King Henry’s advisors are discussing whether to have Queen Jane’s coronation parade, even as sweating sickness is sweeping through England. You can imagine the two sides of the argument because you’ve heard them a million times by now. On the one hand, the parade could spread the virus, on the other hand, the memory of Anne Boleyn’s beheading must be firmly erased from this country’s memory (insert your own specifics for the latter half). These debates have been going on forever and we are just new to the party. The bright side, although not for Jane, is there will end up being three more of these coronation events for even more queens. So, something to consider. There’s always more holidays and more coronations, unless you’re dead, which again is a thing that Henry VIII’s wives and my mother have in common. 

The truth is I might be thankful. Not thankful for the Tudors’ continued bad luck (only 33 Broadway performances of Diana: The Musical!?), but, oddly, for the pandemic at the holidays. The drama of Covid provides a distraction and, more importantly, stakes to the holiday season. Because that’s what’s really missing without my mom. I can have fun -- a great time even! -- but who cares kinda. It doesn’t matter matter. 

I wrapped a present last week and I noticed one of the ribbons wasn’t taking the curl and, in fact, tragically, was bent. I could redo it, but no one will notice. My mom would have noticed. She would have told me to redo it or just come in and done “last looks” on all the presents I’d already wrapped, making a lap with a glue gun and the good scissors. 

My mom was really into gift wrapping. Some bows she created are still kicking around. I see them on other packages and in people's Christmas decorations. She took it seriously. One time when we were little, she bought a roll of wrapping paper that had a white background patterned with red lettering, spelling out -- she presumed -- “Merry Christmas” or maybe even “Joyeux Noel.” Upon further inspection late Christmas Eve, my mom discovered the message was actually “Happy Birthday.” So, like any rational person would, she spent the night writing “Jesus” under every one of the hundreds of “Happy Birthdays” so all the presents said “Happy Birthday Jesus.” Spot the lie. 

So maybe I will redo that ribbon. I’m used to doing that because being the eldest daughter of a family during Christmas isn’t too unlike being an elf. To be honest, moment-to-moment, it’s like having a part-time job and your only payment is “Mom doesn’t have a meltdown.” But man, it sure mattered. And that’s really what I miss.

I know a lot of people heading into their first Grief Christmas. I wish I had better advice. Or any. Any advice would be good. It will be horrible and weird or, alternatively, just another Christmas and next Tuesday will actually be the day that really gets you for no real reason, other than it’s the first Tuesday after Christmas without Anne Boleyn (again, insert your own specifics). I can’t say. For some of you, you will notice the loss most acutely these days. For others, you’ll be happy for once and then feel guilty about that. So a mixed bag of garbage awaits. That much I do know and have planned to not be able to plan for. Throw up a flare if you need it. It matters.