Grief and the Holidays
At every family gathering, for any occasion whenever all of the cousins were together, I was the misfit, the one in the middle that had no place to land. There was a group who were much older and there was a group who were much younger. And then there was me – three years too young for the next group up and three years too old for the ones down below. There wasn’t anyone in my own age group to socialize with. I blended in wherever I could. As the years passed, I found myself “accepted” more with the older group and thus had an education in a number of ways that I wasn’t quite mature enough to understand but stored those nuggets of wisdom away for future reference.
I was never the “go to” cousin. The younger ones had their circle, and the older ones didn’t need anything from me – except perhaps a dose of hero worship which I doled out as needed for entry into their inner sanctum. But none of them ever needed anything from me. Until we were all on the level playing field of adulthood and life experiences.
I never formed a close bond with my cousins, but I attended their weddings and the christenings of their children. And as happens in all families, I attended the funerals of their parents, my aunts and uncles. Soon those funerals became our only social interaction. There was one cousin who when I was a child, took me under her wing in as much as she was aware when I was sitting alone or just on the edge of a group, listening and she would bring me just a bit closer. And during a difficult period in my teens, she reached out in what I thought was a genuine gesture until I was informed much later that she did so at the behest of my mother and my aunt.
Roll on to our adult years with children and the life changing issues we face. Years after my breast cancer diagnosis that same cousin’s daughter was diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer at an age younger than I had been. I received a phone call one evening from this woman, in tears, asking me what she should do. It took me by surprise as I had never once had any message of care, concern or support from her while undergoing my own journey. However, as she had turned to me for advice and support, I gave it, willingly. This is part of the journey – we help those who follow us. Her daughter is still, as I write this, blessedly thriving and raising her family.
Many years later, having exchanged only the odd email message or a quick exchange on social media, I received another late night phone call from this cousin. It was just weeks before Christmas and she was in an agony of despair, sadness, loss and hopelessness. Her grandson had died months before in a car accident and my cousin blamed herself for the death. Grief is not always rational, and guilt often lies in the shadows of grief. The guilt stemmed from having loaned this young man, at age 17, the money to buy the vehicle that soon after its purchase led to his untimely death. We spoke for hours – or rather, I spoke, she cried and kept asking me “why?” and what could she do, how could she cope.
Her biggest issue that night was what to do about Christmas dinner, their family’s first without him. Her grandson loved the rolls she made for the meal, and she always made sure to bake extra because he would eat so many. Now she just couldn’t face making those rolls for everyone else because it hurt her heart. I encouraged her to make the rolls in his honour because I was sure he would want that. I reminded her that the whole family needed to mourn his absence from the table and to stop doing something he had loved could make the memory of his life less significant in some way. She didn’t think she could do that. I then suggested setting a place for him and putting a roll on that plate. And yes, there would be tears and there would be sorrow from every person at that table. But there would also be joy and laughter as stories were told about how many of those rolls he would eat and how excited he’d be when he could smell them baking in the oven. I reminded her that just because someone is no longer at the table physically, they are still very present in spirit, memories and hearts.
I don’t know if she followed through with any comfort I tried to offer that night. I hope she did. I cried when I got the news from her brother that she had died on Christmas Day just a few years ago. As another Christmas Day approaches, I’m thinking of her and of her family. I hope her daughter now makes those rolls and sets two places at the Christmas dinner table – one for her son and one for her mother.