The drowning of a widowed heart

Christmastime is upon us and, while many shop and gather together in friendship, I stand alone. Partly because I have been left alone by those I care about as they spend time with their close(r) friends and family. Also partly because I choose to be alone. I carry a sorrow that I cannot (and do not wish) to share. Even in my sadness, I wish for others to experience the happiness I had.

This time last year, my spouse, James, was in and out of hospitals dealing with chemo, blood transfusions, seizures and medications that carried him away down a river more quickly than expected, more quickly than I could follow. By January, he was gone, swept around the bend, out of sight for now.

Here I languish. I bob along with a slower flow, occasionally struggling against the current, often just floating, occasionally face up, often face down. Dead man’s float. I bide my time until it is my turn to be swept around the bend. Like a discarded, plastic soda bottle – empty, with no means to steer my own course.

For me, the holidays were always a time of intense loneliness, even in the crowd of my big family with tons of aunts, uncles, cousins gathered in a small farmhouse heated by a wood stove and bodies. Music from accordion, fiddle, and harmonica would tumble out the windows opened to let in crisp, snow-scented air. A cacophony of voices from a myriad of conversations would fight for position – federal and local politics, health of a grand-uncle in Boston, what a wayward cousin has been up to lately, where to place the still-warm rabbit pie on an already groaning table. Words and noise piling up, up, up towards the smoke-hazed light on the ceiling. I should have been happy. Even as a small child, I knew that I was unusual in my seclusion in a crowd. It made me feel that much more alone. Every so often I would slip off to another room or out to a corner of the barn to release the tears. Then I would readjust my mask and return to the noisy fold. No one ever noticed.

Twelve years ago all that changed in an amazing way. I met James on the eve of Christmas Eve, or Tibb’s Eve as it may be called by some. December 23rd, a day that is forever etched in my heart. December 26th was our first date. By New Year’s Eve, we just knew – this was It. We had found each other at long last. I didn’t have another lonely Christmas again until this year. So much love, joy and laughter in the too few years we had together.

The sudden absence of that happiness now creating a sucking whirlpool. It’s like all the loneliness and sorrow that I used to carry at Christmas was just off to the side, building itself up, biding its time, waiting to pounce. It’s back eleven-fold.

There is a saying, “Laugh now, cry later.” I never knew what that meant until now. The yin-yang yo-yo of life has flung me off the other way. I’m underwater, trying to get my bearings, grabbing at rocks and branches, but nothing is solid, no thing to stop the swirling and spiralling. It sucks. It sucks. It sucks.

I won’t be by myself this holiday season. My family will see to that. Sighing, I cling to the flotsam of a dusty, aged crate and dig through the memories it contains.

Ah, my mask. Here it is. It still fits.