Christmas Has Been Rocked Forever

In more ways than I can count, my love of Christmas makes no sense.  Some people may and even do call my continued fondness for the holiday absolutely absurd.  My childhood Christmases were the opposite of the Norman Rockwell images and far from the happy Christmases we give our daughter. 

We’ve all met our share of people who hate this time of year and are counting down the seconds to the moment after New Year’s Day.  Some of the individuals who feel this way focus on what they don’t have more than on anything else.  I suppose I could’ve been the president of their “I hate Christmas” club, but I’ve always had the gift of hope.  No, this doesn’t mean that I’m some delusional optimist living in fantasy land.  I’m simply a die-hard realist who has seen the bottom fall out on numerous occasions, and I would be stupid not to revel in the finer moments.  

During the 2008 holiday season, we welcomed our daughter.  I spent five days in the hospital worrying about things at home.  As a person who detests leaving tasks unfinished, a month early delivery meant that we didn’t quite wrap up arranging the baby’s room, etc., but most of all, I worried about my three dogs.  I knew that our three-year old Chocolate Lab, Henry, who was always by my side, would be especially anxious.  He was concerned if I didn’t return home at my usual time, concerned if he heard my car pull up but didn’t see me soon after and concerned if I was anywhere without him.  When I returned home from the delivery, he gave me a very intense and concerned look as if to question, “Where has my mommy been?”  Although he treasured other family members, he and I shared an incomparable bond. 

In the early morning before Christmas Eve this year, my Henry passed away unexpectedly.  We have been preparing ourselves to make peace with losing our senior dog, Jake, whose health has been declining for some time and didn’t expect to lose Henry before Jake.  Henry was only eight years-old and had several tumors including a large mass in his lung.  As I rushed out of bed to get dressed for the 24 hour veterinary hospital around 3 a.m. on Monday, he followed me to the restroom, and a few minutes later, he collapsed and left us. 

I never cursed Christmas, because I knew that I should move forward from all of the other unfortunate incidents during past holiday seasons and be thankful for the blessings I had.  After all, it could have been so much worse.  Well, one of the worst has to be losing a baby who has gripped on to your heart, as Henry has on mine.  It’s impossible not to be haunted by our countless moments of wonderful, because he was the size of an 11 year-old child who was always by my side. 

Someone asked me the day after Christmas if I would take the eight years with Henry back, if I knew, in advance, of this outcome.  The response is, “absolutely not!” 

The wound is so fresh, and I am not at peace.  I’m not sure I will be soon.  During this solemn week, however, I still find myself giving thanks for what I have.  Hopefully, by next year, the joy in the true love remembrance that was given to me so generously will overshadow my sorrow and heartbreak.  I want to come out of this as someone who realizes how much she still loves Christmas.