I have a blue Christmas without you
I’ll be so blue just thinking about you
Decorations of red, on a green Christmas tree
Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me…
I can’t believe my mom isn’t here this Christmas. The last time I saw her was Xmas Eve day 2018. John and I met my parents for lunch, as their house had gotten to such a state that there wasn’t even a place we could all eat together. The house had decayed around them as they did, slowly losing parts that we always took for granted.
After lunch we took a quick trip to BJs. Mom wanted to go inside, but doing so would have meant so much more work, would take so much longer, and dad and I just needed to run inside and get things quickly, so John stayed in the car with her and distracted her with a conversation about cookies. I wish I had taken the time to get her out of the car, into her wheelchair, and pushed her around the store.
When we got back to their house she kept asking us to stay, asking if there was anything else we could do. But we were exhausted and sad and we had plans to go to my best friend’s parents’ house for dinner, and wanting to be in a clean, cheerful house surrounded by warmth and light, we left. We should have stayed. Even just for a few more minutes.
And now she’s gone.
So much has changed over the years. There’s been so much loss, especially in 2019, and it’s weighed so heavy on my heart. I want to feel that childlike joy again, I want the holidays to feel warm and loving, I want to have family all around opening presents and being present…but I can’t have that. Those moments are gone, and I will never get them back.
I know I’m not alone with my holiday blues. The holidays can be a hard time for many, whether due to loved ones lost, financial hardships, battling illness, or any other myriad of reasons that could be diminishing those feelings of cheer. So check in with your Scrooge-ish friends & family and make sure they know you love them, even if they’re not feeling the seasonal vibes this year.
Things will get better, and worse, and better…life will continue with sadness and joy, and those potential moments of joy in the future keep me going. Hopefully 2020 will bring me as much happiness as 2019 brought me sadness.
If you’ve managed to make it this far in my maudlin post, I applaud you, and award you with this amazing take on the “Night Before Christmas” that my mom wrote in 1981.
A New Orleans Night Before Christmas
T’was the night before Christmas
In old New Orleans,
The folks were real busy a-stirrin
pralines.
On Bourbon sweet music played all
through the night,
to welcome dear Santa with sounds
of delight.
The children were sleepin
just sharin the cot,
and dreamin of gumbo all
spicy and hot.
While mom’s in the kitchen
a-peelin puhtata
I’m on the back porch just
skinnin the gata.
When out on the levee I heard
such a sound,
like oil that was gushin
through lafayette ground.
I dashed off the porch
and peered through the trees,
and saw this fat guy with
mud on his knees.
He had mud on his coat and
mud on his hat,
yet he laughed a great laugh
though in mud’s where he sat.
And up on the levee to
my great surprise,
stood eight jumbo shrimp
I’m sure of the size.
They pulled a great shrimp boat
with cord round each neck,
and presents were strewn
all over the deck.
Then this fat guy gets up
and cleans himself quick,
and under that muck was
jolly Saint Nick.
He looked at his shrimp and
then looked at me,
and laughed at my wonder and
slapped his fat knee.
Then he called for his shrimp
with a trumpeting sound,
and they flew down to meet him
right there on the ground.
“Here’s ‘Po-Boy’ and ‘Boiled’
that’s ‘Creole’ and ‘Mornay,’
here’s ‘Curry’ and ‘Scampi,’
and ‘Stuffed’ and ‘Flambe.'”
They nodded their heads, I responded
in kind,
yet I feared for the worst
-was I losing my mind?
Now Santa he smiled and
said to me – “Friend,
here’s to a new year, this year’s
at an end.
These presents I bring are
full of good cheer,
Merry Christmas to you and
a Happy New Year.”
When my best friend lost her Mom so suddenly several years back, I welcomed her to the club that no one wants to join: she had become a member of the “those who love his/her parent who has just died” club. The worst club I’ve ever joined. I want to quit this club EVERY DAY. But it is a club to which I, then she, and now you, have been forced to join. And I’m so very sorry to welcome you. The “dues” are outrageous, the benefits are non-existant, and everyone is miserable when they arrive and must stay. The only perk of this club is knowing there are so many other people in it that you can talk to about whatever you’re going through on any kind of day. But I hope you’ll find that one and only perk useful. You’ve written a beautiful post. It touched me very deeply. Not just because your writing is as brilliant as I imagine all of your Mom’s is as well, but because you nailed it. You nailed the shame, regret, and facts. I love and care about you very deeply as a friend, and it breaks me to know the ways you’ve suffered. I feel that I am terrible in reacting appropriately to extremely emotional situations, joyous ones included. And I don’t know why, or when, or how this affect came to be a part of me. Best guess? I never wanted anyone else to tell me how to feel about any kind of thing. So I can’t help you there. But I can tell you that I will always be here for you. And I do deeply believe that your Mom is still with you as much as you want or need her to be; it’s just a different kind of with you. I didn’t have to know your Mom to know she’s proud of you. (Some people find that last statement to be offensive — as if I could speak on behalf of someone now gone. I’m sorry if it offends you. But I believe it nonetheless.) I have a request that you may obviously ignore: please don’t waste time/energy/ANYTHING at the expense of keeping the knowledge that you were there for your Mom close to you. It’s psychological torture. And you haven’t earned that. You didn’t take your Mom for granted. She knows that. And I will be here until you know that too, and for as long as I’m alive, actually. ?Sometimes you’re ahead. Sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth? -Baz Luhrmann “Everybody’s Free (to Wear Sunscreen)” I love you. I’m here. And I’m not leaving. Thank you for being one of the good ones. I wish you comfort and peace as you navigate such a tremendous loss. ♥️♥️♥️
When my best friend lost her Mom so suddenly several years back, I welcomed her to the club that no one wants to join: she had become a member of the “those who love his/her parent who has just died” club. The worst club I’ve ever joined. I want to quit this club EVERY DAY. But it is a club to which I, then she, and now you, have been forced to join. And I’m so very sorry to welcome you. The “dues” are outrageous, the benefits are non-existant, and everyone is miserable when they arrive and must stay. The only perk of this club is knowing there are so many other people in it that you can talk to about whatever you’re going through on any kind of day. But I hope you’ll find that one and only perk useful. You’ve written a beautiful post. It touched me very deeply. Not just because your writing is as brilliant as I imagine all of your Mom’s is as well, but because you nailed it. You nailed the shame, regret, and facts. I love and care about you very deeply as a friend, and it breaks me to know the ways you’ve suffered. I feel that I am terrible in reacting appropriately to extremely emotional situations, joyous ones included. And I don’t know why, or when, or how this affect came to be a part of me. Best guess? I never wanted anyone else to tell me how to feel about any kind of thing. So I can’t help you there. But I can tell you that I will always be here for you. And I do deeply believe that your Mom is still with you as much as you want or need her to be; it’s just a different kind of with you. I didn’t have to know your Mom to know she’s proud of you. (Some people find that last statement to be offensive — as if I could speak on behalf of someone now gone. I’m sorry if it offends you. But I believe it nonetheless.) I have a request that you may obviously ignore: please don’t waste time/energy/ANYTHING at the expense of keeping the knowledge that you were there for your Mom close to you. It’s psychological torture. And you haven’t earned that. You didn’t take your Mom for granted. She knows that. And I will be here until you know that too, and for as long as I’m alive, actually. ?Sometimes you’re ahead. Sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth? -Baz Luhrmann “Everybody’s Free (to Wear Sunscreen)” I love you. I’m here. And I’m not leaving. Thank you for being one of the good ones. I wish you comfort and peace as you navigate such a tremendous loss. ♥️♥️♥️
It is hard to believe it has almost been a year, the time that was stolen from both of you is terrible. I hope the new year brings many new joys and memories that are so precious. Hang in there❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️