Bonus Edition: The Holidays, Loss, and Grief

Every now and then, I'll use this space for personal essays.

The last time I spoke to my father, I asked him if he was feeling under the weather. He responded, “It’s just old age, kid.” The next day, he suffered a fatal heart attack. The year was 2002, and I have thought about him every day since. In December 2008, my mom passed away from congestive heart failure. We had a complicated relationship, but I think about her often. In 2010, I lost my brother to a drug overdose. I still haven’t fully processed his death.

If you’ve experienced significant loss, the holiday season likely creates a blanket of grief that wraps itself around you so tight that you can hardly breathe. It’s the time of year when I feel the loss of my parents more acutely, and even after all these years, I don’t know where to put it, so depression comes for an unwelcome visit. Sometimes, people will say, “Be grateful for the time you had with them,” which makes me want to scream: “I WAS. I AM. BUT I WANT THEM HERE RIGHT NOW!” I miss my dad’s inability to keep gifts a secret, my mom’s Italian feast of the seven fish every Christmas Eve, and pretending that we all heard Santa Claus for the sake of my nieces and nephews.

When I was a kid, my family gathered at my grandmother’s house every Christmas. There was laughter, good food, and presents. My Aunt Barbara made the most amazing cookies and what we called a choo-choo cake. People have a misconception about Italian families that I assume they picked up from watching too many episodes of The Sopranos. While some show details rang true, my grandmother, aunts, and uncles were refined. There was no yelling or cussing. There was rarely drinking save for some red table wine and obligatory shots of Sambuca. Most of my mother’s family was well-off; we were not. I grew up in a small two-bedroom apartment where my parents converted the dining room into their bedroom. It didn’t have doors. Sometimes, my dad worked an extra shift for the railroad on Christmas Eve to bring home a paycheck reflecting double time and a half.

We didn’t have the All-American traditions you see in Hallmark Christmas movies, but I longed for them. Every year, I’d watch Miracle on 34th Street and wish Santa had brought me a big house. My dad ensured there were always presents under the tree, and I was never disappointed. As the years passed, I began to pull away from my family. I still loved them but lived at home until age 27 and wanted out. Family drama surrounded my wedding in 2000, and I stopped talking to them for a while. I felt guilty about it, but I needed to set some boundaries. It never occurred to me I’d have such limited time left with my parents and brother.

Now that I have a family, I am what my teenagers call “extra” about the holidays: decorations galore, fun presents, and, if they are lucky, my famous chocolate chip bread pudding. Still, I ache for my parents. There are days when I want to talk to my dad so badly that I cry. One of many reasons I moved to the Jersey Shore was because I feel closest to my parents here. My childhood summers were spent going on day trips to the boardwalk or staying in a small bungalow for a week. I relished every moment.

Whenever a friend of mine loses a parent, I always tell them two things: 1. There is no roadmap for grief. Everyone handles it differently. 2. Grief doesn't go away, but it starts to feel different after enough time passes. What I don’t say is that they will have a knot in their stomach during each holiday season because the sadness sets in and is stubborn. I can’t describe the loneliness they’ll feel even when surrounded by a room full of people who love them or the nagging feeling when they see a present that would be perfect for someone who is no longer with us. My job for them is simple: be present.

My instinct right now is to crawl into bed, hide under the covers, and resurface on January 2, 2024. Since I can’t do that, I will focus on my family, puppies, and work and give my time to others experiencing a rough patch. A close friend once told me to aim for contentment instead of happiness because they are close cousins. He was right. No one could ever replace those I’ve lost in my immediate and extended family, but I can try to find small ways to be content right now. I’m unsure what that looks like, but I will let you know when I find out.

-Kathleen