I’ve been overdosing on Hallmark Christmas movies, partly because television doesn’t offer much else, but, mainly to get to the place where Christmas used to take me. For someone who acts like a pragmatist, I am, in essence, a dreamer. The holidays give me license to live in the land of wishes and miracles. I was raised in a family where reality was drilled into us with one exception. The Dad who strove to make each of us ready for the ‘real world’ softened at Christmas time. Wishing pretty much made It so. Christmas music filled the house. My mother’s baking took rein over her cleaning, and decorating became my job. It was the one time where my creativity trumped the demand for science and study. It seemed magical, if only for a few days.
I tried to recreate that feeling with my own children; however, I did it on steroids. As my son told me: “Mom, you turn everything into an extravaganza.” In retrospect, I think it was my way of turning any occasion… birthday, graduation, Christmas… into an escape, to create one day of pure joy. Real life took over every other day. Any day where joy and surprise kept fear or worry at bay was a magical day. At least for me. (Could that be why the treasure hunts for birthday presents were never recreated on my birthday? Maybe the need for that joy was more mine.) Now that those days are no longer mine to control, I’m happy that I created extravaganzas. Real life is just too hard to let it cast its pall every single day. Ultimately, I’ve spent too much money, leaving retirement a scary journey into reality; however, I should have memories to excuse my excesses and belief that I may have made loved ones’ days just a little happier. Some of them have left this world too early. Would I rather have money in the bank or the that knowing I tried my best to help them find their own joy? No contest. (Just wish I could have managed both.)
So, I’ve become immersed in TV’s version of disappointment and loss turning into a heartwarming story of triumph and love; yet, I remain unconvinced. It’s fantasy. There is no way that my son will come walking into my home on Christmas Day. The memories are all that could lessen the pain. Here’s the thing though, the memories are fading with each passing day. I get that a person has to compartmentalize something so grave as a child’s loss in order to function for those who still depend on her. It would be immeasurably selfish to ruin another child’s holiday because of my own loss. It’s not their fault that their brother is gone, and I’m sure they are stifling their own sadness. However, they have an opportunity, indeed, an obligation to create magical memories for their own children. In whatever way I can, I owe it to them to add to their joy. In whatever way possible. I owe it to both of us to reflect some of that joy myself. It’s this recreation of life’s extravaganzas that enables me to manage a smile.
In previous blogs, I’ve written as if the memories of Sean were enough. Maybe they were. I’ve reduced his life to a diagnosis in a way… Bipolar. Sean wasn’t bipolar. He may have had traits of a person with bipolar disorder that, undiagnosed, fermented and stole his spirit. He, however, was not a disease. He was a dynamic, talented, funny, loving person who lit up my world. Undoubtedly, there were days when neither of us dealt with the other in a way we’d be proud of. He was complicated, as geniuses tend to be. As a mother, I may be predisposed to use this term for my child; however, it is not one of my choosing. It’s a designation given by many others for his musical talent. Nonetheless, I recognized genius in many ways others might not.
Those talents of Sean’s often proved burdensome. At times, it’s very difficult for gifted people to understand why others don’t see what they see. He tried, more than anyone could know, to share his insights. What he didn’t realize is that his music spoke poignantly for him. He just needed to give it time and patience. That’s another frustrating trait of the gifted… they have no patience. He died feeling that he was a failure in music and life. He was neither. He was a beacon to those who knew him and, now, to those who have found his music. He should not be remembered or thought to be a disease. It was not my intent in forming the Fund; in fact, it was the opposite. I wanted people to know his challenges, so they didn’t misconstrue his death. Just as importantly, I wanted to express that people with such challenges cannot be put into boxes or labels. They, as he, are often a beautiful gift to the reality of our world.
As you can see, I start to tell the undoctored story of a mother’s heartbreak, and drift into trying to reveal Sean’s. We were alike in so many ways. It’s one of the reasons why we were so close, and why we jousted so often. I have felt like a failure many times, but no more so than after he passed. It must have been my fault. I should have done something different, better. Do we ever know which is the right path until it leads to a dead end? I know my extravaganzas made him smile. He made fun of me, yet, brought his friends home to witness and share.
To date, I have fooled myself into thinking that memories are enough. They aren’t. In fact, they are starting to fail me. I remember less and less. I want so hard to hear his laugh and see that sparkle on Christmas morning. Heck, I’d take an argument. I could turn to his music, but it hurts too much. I know that I am luckier than most. I had a very sweet person tell me once that she’d give anything to hear her Dad’s voice again. For a very long time, I kept Sean’s cell phone active, and I’d call to hear him say his name. His speaking voice is what I miss. “Hi, Mama.” The only one who called my Mama.
I love to sing. I was raised with music and met Sean’s Dad at a dance. Music was in his genes. He made the most beautiful music, but I can’t listen to it, and I can’t listen to others’. I feel too sad if I listen to his and a traitor if I listen to others’. Besides, in my heart, theirs’ pales. The world took my voice when it took him. I still buy way too much for grandchildren. Somehow, I think it will show them how much I love them. I know that it’s foolish, but it’s really the best I can do sometimes. I want to make them happy, if only for that one minute. Of course, I hug them (too much for their taste, I think), for I know now that life is a fragile gift. It’s so much harder to take things in stride, for every fever becomes a disease until it’s not. All it took was the near-loss of my daughter to make fear a plausible reality. My one selfish wish is that I do not live long enough to lose a single other loved one.
I’m writing this for two reasons: (1) because I need to express the ongoing deep loss of losing my child. It’s changed me, and writing is one way I might reconnect with the person who believed we could create joy; and (2) because I have a voice for others who have lost. I think, in some ways, I’ve diminished the depth and duration of their sadness with past writings. By doing that, I may have trivialized feelings, or made someone feel alone in them. They do not suffer alone. I know that there are those who have been able to absorb their loss with a strength that I may not have. Some of them have a faith that assures them that there will be a meeting in another world. I cannot draw assurances from faith that I do not have. All I can do is find what joy I can glean from the faces of my grandchildren and support and love of my children. In that way, life has been good. At times, I even borrow some from you.
This year, Hallmark is my go to. Sean would certainly laugh and tell me I was cheesy and that I was a dreamer. This Thanksgiving, I’ll concentrate on the faces of the loved ones that support me despite the change in me; and, try to dream of Sean and smile at his loving teases of me while digging harder for happy memories.