It's December 10th and I have been dreading putting up the ornaments on the Christmas tree for weeks. Last week I had a gust of energy and bravery and put up the tree. I pulled out my Christmas decorations out of a blue rubber bin from under the stairs in the basement. Eli put them around the house, but mostly on the piano. I thought about the ornaments, but pushed the thought away when I felt the pain that came with it. I'll do it next Sunday.
The tradition we've created as a family over the years is to play Christmas music while we all trim the tree. It's always been a special moment. We have laughs over some of the ornaments or share stories over others. We sing in harmony with hand gestures. It's an iconic memory that I've had some version of 19 times with Kamila there, and now twice without her. This year would have been the third time, but I wasn't able to do it. The connection was too potent between decorating the tree, and facing the fact that she is dead.
Something I had to learn quick after Kamila died is that life keeps moving forward, with or without you. I needed to stop coddling myself and move forward with decorating the tree today. While trying to pump myself up I became aware of how weak and nauseous I felt. The feeling of going invisible, I've written about it before. The burning pit in my stomach also back, full force. I realized that I couldn't parent right now let alone decorate the tree. My sister had offered to come help decorate earlier this week so I reached out to her.
I forced myself with every ounce of my being to walk the dog after my sister arrived. I've been walking daily for months now and this would have been the third day of not walking Stella if I didn't pull myself together. I cried most of the way. I pulled off just over 2 kms feeling like I was dragging a heavy weight. When I got back and walked into the house, my kids were waiting for me to decorate the Christmas tree. My sister opened up the bin, "Ok, are we ready?"
It felt like I was about to do a viewing of her body, or another difficult milestone like packing up her room in Kingston, 2 years too early. It's just a tree. I paced from the entrance to the kitchen, got water, tried to breathe. I started fighting with myself about staying or leaving for the decorating. Just decorate the fucking tree. Be normal for the kids. I looked at the tree and I saw a flash of her body.
I grabbed my computer and water and made my way upstairs not saying a word to the kids. I ran into my sister who was coming out of the washroom and I told her I couldn't do it. I continued on to my room crying inwardly, silenly. I collapsed on my bed and let myself go, outwardly.
Here I am now, writing this instead of decorating the tree. Trying to be gentle with myself for not pushing through and being part of the moment. Loving myself through grief waves like this has not been easy. I can be so critical of myself when I am at the height of my suffering. I remember this as I sit in the stillness that comes after a wave. I close my eyes and say to myself, "I love you Brigitte, I love you. It's ok that you didn't decorate the tree this year. You made a choice that helped you through the fire. I love you."
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