I spent most of the week after Christmas marveling at how easy it had been to move through the holiday, barely weighed down by sadness or bad memories. It was surprising, since Colin loved Christmas and it really is my favorite holiday.
Then came New Year’s, which is not my favorite holiday. I’ve never much cared for the atmosphere of “We must party now.” Berlin’s obsession with fireworks has also grown old over time. So, I started December 31 with my usual attitude of “Let’s just get through this.”
Then we decided to go to the grave and light a sparkler for Colin. Christina wanted to go just as it turned dark and it seemed like a really good idea. And it’s not as if I had a breakdown or anything. I wasn’t intensely sad afterwards, but I was also not in the mood for anything like a party. It took until almost 11 p.m. until I could halfway register something like gaiety (upon which, I immediately drank too much champagne). The only upside was that, since it was obvious I didn’t want to be at the festivities, I used the threat of my potential flight to get people at the table to turn off their mobile phones for once. I mean, if I elect not to escape the party for a book in a quiet room, the people who claim to want to be there don’t get to escape to the internet.
And now it’s the new year and, if I’m not mistaken, probably still New Year’s Day somewhere in the world as I type this. I see a lot of challenges ahead. Like, the retreat for grieving families won’t take you until your loved one has been dead for six months, since they say the true grief often doesn’t hit until about half a year later, which presages a really rough March and April for us. There’s Colin’s birthday and all the first anniversaries: of him being taken off solid food; of being told that the cancer was back; of moving into the hospice. It’s not as if I plan to wear black and ritually weep for each of these, but the memory will be there, darkening whatever else might be happening that day.
It’s encapsulated best in our family calendar. We’ve had five to six columns in our family calendar for year, keeping track of everything from holidays to chemotherapy appointments. We usually never fill out a month until we’re almost upon it, and that includes the names on top. I know we had Colin in there regularly through the summer and then, one day in August – after Emma, Noah and I returned to the house – I was filling things in and it just dawned on me that it was kind of pointless to put him in for October and November. I have no idea how his name got in the December slot, in my handwriting no less.
But now we’re down to four names, and it’s just another sign of his absence, just like when his name disappeared from the list of active accounts at our bank to the way that, when I set up our 2020 filing system, I’m not going to need a separate binder for Colin’s medical bills any more. The thing is, there’s no escaping it and, all things considered, I’m not sure I would escape it if I could.