Healing Through the Holidays
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
I cannot even begin to pretend that the holidays have been easy since losing Camden. Every moment of every day is so incredibly hard; the holidays are no different. The pain that, most days, is a constant throbbing in the background of an otherwise happy, sometimes even ecstatic, existence magnifies a million times when the end of the year rolls around.
The period of time from my birthday in October until after the New Year is one of the worst. I'm not writing this post with the intent of offering a series of steps that make the holidays manageable. I cannot even fathom saying that if you do this, this, and this, you will somehow be able to make it through. There's no right or wrong way to navigate through grief during this time, but I do have a few suggestions. I've made it this far, right? Through (almost) three sets of Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas hams, and several flutes of New Year's Eve champagne. I'm no expert, but I have endured -- and that's more than what I thought I would be able to say back in November 2015.
Here's what I've learned in the time since then:
Lean into love. Lean into those who are still with you on this journey. You are not the only one who lost your loved one -- those in your life did, too. I'm not trying to minimize anyone's grief, but when I lost my son, my parents also lost a grandson. My sisters lost a nephew, my friends lost one, too. I just knew I was alone in my grief. And while it is true that no one else knows the pain I endured as Cam's mother and his only parent, my team + tribe were hit with not only the agony of losing the sweetest boy this side of Heaven, but also, the horrendous experience of being on the cusp of losing a daughter, sister, friend, teacher, and so much more. Chances are, those around you have been desperately looking for an opportunity to help you, to show their continued support well after the memorial service and once the phone calls have stopped. They need you as much as you need them.
Be honest about where you are. There's no one way to travel through this pain. There's no straight path through to the other side. If you need help, ask. Come up with a plan,if you need an escape. Before losing my son, I was incredibly extroverted. I never met a stranger and I was an expert at turning small talk into lifelong friendships and meaningful connections. That all changed after Cam passed away. I no longer felt comfortable in crowds. I knew I was different from those around me. I was not then, nor would I ever, lead a normal life again. How could I talk about sports or books or movies when my world had ended? I lost my ability to connect. Even now, being in a room with more than twenty people is not a pleasant experience -- but I've learned and adapted and figured out what works. My first Christmas after losing Cam, my then boyfriend (now, husband) and I came up with a signal for when I was feeling overwhelmed. Our relationship was very new (we'd been officially dating for less than two weeks!) and spending the first holiday with one another's family alone is stressful enough, without the added complication of one of those people being on the precipice of a grief-induced meltdown. I made it through because we made a plan: when I was feeling on the verge of tears, I'd make eye contact and we'd take a walk. We'd talk. We'd do anything to remove myself from the eyes of those around me and to retreat into the warmth and comfort and familiarity of the arms of the person I loved. I needed help and he was there to offer it. If you can't make it through a formal dinner, if you can't enjoy the same holiday traditions that you used to -- that's okay. Do what you can and do not trap yourself into feeling like you have to do what you know you can't.
Lastly, remember to celebrate the one you love, the one you lost. You would not know great grief if not for great love, and love is what this time of year is all about. It's being grateful for that love, it's sharing that love, it's feeling the warmth that flows from love like that. You are not the only one missing your loved one. You are not the only one aching inside. You are not alone. You loved that person, those people. Because they are no longer here does not mean that that love is lost. Find a way to honor them. Bring them up in conversation. Say their name. Talk about them. Relive those moments and memories that you hold so dear. When you're asked what your thankful for, tell a story about your loved one. I recently spoke with one of my dear friends, laughing about how Cam peed on her one morning. I'm thankful not only for that memory, but for the sweet soul that I can laugh and share that joy with, who remembers my boy and his silly smile, and who reminds me that he was so loved by so many. Share their light with those who never had the privilege to know them. Do a good deed in their name. Put an ornament on the tree for them. Leave an open seat at dinner. Hang a stocking, fill it with gifts you know they would have loved and then, distribute to those in need. Make the world brighter, this time of year a little merrier.
And if you don't think you can do any of the things above, that's fine, too. If all you can do is spend the day in bed, sleeping long enough to forget the pain, then that's okay. Do what you can. Don't beat yourself up for what you can't. The important thing is that you survive. That you make it through. The world cannot bare to lose you, too. And if you need to talk, I'm here, I'm available. You're not alone.
Wishing you the happiest of holidays from my sweet boy and I.
As always,
Carrying Camden
I cannot even begin to pretend that the holidays have been easy since losing Camden. Every moment of every day is so incredibly hard; the holidays are no different. The pain that, most days, is a constant throbbing in the background of an otherwise happy, sometimes even ecstatic, existence magnifies a million times when the end of the year rolls around.
The period of time from my birthday in October until after the New Year is one of the worst. I'm not writing this post with the intent of offering a series of steps that make the holidays manageable. I cannot even fathom saying that if you do this, this, and this, you will somehow be able to make it through. There's no right or wrong way to navigate through grief during this time, but I do have a few suggestions. I've made it this far, right? Through (almost) three sets of Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas hams, and several flutes of New Year's Eve champagne. I'm no expert, but I have endured -- and that's more than what I thought I would be able to say back in November 2015.
Here's what I've learned in the time since then:
Lean into love. Lean into those who are still with you on this journey. You are not the only one who lost your loved one -- those in your life did, too. I'm not trying to minimize anyone's grief, but when I lost my son, my parents also lost a grandson. My sisters lost a nephew, my friends lost one, too. I just knew I was alone in my grief. And while it is true that no one else knows the pain I endured as Cam's mother and his only parent, my team + tribe were hit with not only the agony of losing the sweetest boy this side of Heaven, but also, the horrendous experience of being on the cusp of losing a daughter, sister, friend, teacher, and so much more. Chances are, those around you have been desperately looking for an opportunity to help you, to show their continued support well after the memorial service and once the phone calls have stopped. They need you as much as you need them.
Be honest about where you are. There's no one way to travel through this pain. There's no straight path through to the other side. If you need help, ask. Come up with a plan,if you need an escape. Before losing my son, I was incredibly extroverted. I never met a stranger and I was an expert at turning small talk into lifelong friendships and meaningful connections. That all changed after Cam passed away. I no longer felt comfortable in crowds. I knew I was different from those around me. I was not then, nor would I ever, lead a normal life again. How could I talk about sports or books or movies when my world had ended? I lost my ability to connect. Even now, being in a room with more than twenty people is not a pleasant experience -- but I've learned and adapted and figured out what works. My first Christmas after losing Cam, my then boyfriend (now, husband) and I came up with a signal for when I was feeling overwhelmed. Our relationship was very new (we'd been officially dating for less than two weeks!) and spending the first holiday with one another's family alone is stressful enough, without the added complication of one of those people being on the precipice of a grief-induced meltdown. I made it through because we made a plan: when I was feeling on the verge of tears, I'd make eye contact and we'd take a walk. We'd talk. We'd do anything to remove myself from the eyes of those around me and to retreat into the warmth and comfort and familiarity of the arms of the person I loved. I needed help and he was there to offer it. If you can't make it through a formal dinner, if you can't enjoy the same holiday traditions that you used to -- that's okay. Do what you can and do not trap yourself into feeling like you have to do what you know you can't.
Lastly, remember to celebrate the one you love, the one you lost. You would not know great grief if not for great love, and love is what this time of year is all about. It's being grateful for that love, it's sharing that love, it's feeling the warmth that flows from love like that. You are not the only one missing your loved one. You are not the only one aching inside. You are not alone. You loved that person, those people. Because they are no longer here does not mean that that love is lost. Find a way to honor them. Bring them up in conversation. Say their name. Talk about them. Relive those moments and memories that you hold so dear. When you're asked what your thankful for, tell a story about your loved one. I recently spoke with one of my dear friends, laughing about how Cam peed on her one morning. I'm thankful not only for that memory, but for the sweet soul that I can laugh and share that joy with, who remembers my boy and his silly smile, and who reminds me that he was so loved by so many. Share their light with those who never had the privilege to know them. Do a good deed in their name. Put an ornament on the tree for them. Leave an open seat at dinner. Hang a stocking, fill it with gifts you know they would have loved and then, distribute to those in need. Make the world brighter, this time of year a little merrier.
And if you don't think you can do any of the things above, that's fine, too. If all you can do is spend the day in bed, sleeping long enough to forget the pain, then that's okay. Do what you can. Don't beat yourself up for what you can't. The important thing is that you survive. That you make it through. The world cannot bare to lose you, too. And if you need to talk, I'm here, I'm available. You're not alone.
Wishing you the happiest of holidays from my sweet boy and I.
As always,
Carrying Camden
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