Way back when I started writing here, I was a 30-ish year old mommy of two little girls living in Denver, Colorado. My husband worked long hours as men 'climbing the corporate ladder' at that age tend to do, and I had gotten a little lost in 'just' being a mom. I took this up as a hobby, as I'd always enjoyed writing and thought that keeping a 'blog' would be a fun, modern take on the baby book. I wrote about our day to day life, the silly and the fun, the challenging and the mundane, and I did even share a recipe or two. The Salad Days continued on like that for many years, and I enjoyed the back and forth interactions I'd have with those who read what I'd written. Sometimes I'd write more frequently than others, but generally there as a consistent nature to my musings.
Then, in October of 2016, everything changed. By then, we'd been back in North Carolina for four years and had added not just a third daughter but also a son to our bunch. Life with four children under age eight was busy, hectic, crazy, and so, so sweet. On an ordinary afternoon, which I described in detail here, I received the news that my dad had unexpectedly passed away, and the following years' writings revolved around that loss and how navigating grief while continuing on with life was impacting me. Between November of 2016 and October of 2018, I'd go on to write about my dad, his passing, and my grief walk a total of four times. Each entry was titled with a lyric from the Allman Brothers song Melissa for which I had been named. For me, this writing was healing, and I'd hoped reading it would be helpful for others, too.
Five months after I last wrote about my dad, in March of 2019, we lost my mother in law after a hard-fought battle with cancer. It was this additional loss that opened my eyes to the way grief impacts each of us differently: my husband's grief journey did not resemble mine. He, too, had good days and bad, and as I had found writing to be one of my coping mechanisms, he found his own ways to cope (and became quite a talented banjo builder in the process). He rode the grief waves at his pace, and we all continue to be affected by the great hole her matriarchal role in our family has left. The passing of their grandmother was the first significant loss our children experienced as far as the death of someone who was a key person in their lives. Walking with them through the experience was a journey all its own and was, unfortunately, a precursor to more loss that was to come.
Just as Melissa had become a soundtrack to the untangling of the life and death of my dad, music has played in key role in the three year the grief journey that began on Christmas Eve 2020, when my dear Holly, the closest thing I'll ever have to a sister, closed her eyes on earth and opened them in the presence of God. The timing of her passing, of course, inspired the title of this writing. The complete line being: "A long December and there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last." And the truth is, every December since she left us, it's as if that Counting Crows song sets up residence in my subconscious, and streams constantly throughout all I do. Through the hustle and bustle, the shopping and wrapping, the baking and decorating, I do wonder, will this year be better than the last?
I also wonder, will this be the year that I do THIS - that I write about her and about my grieving; that I do the only thing I know to do to salve my pain. Interestingly, I was honored to be asked by her family to give the eulogy at Holly's funeral. So, in the days that immediately followed her passing, I sat alone at a table at Reid's Fine Foods and sipped iced tea or wine, depending on the day, and wrote all about her. I wrote of our meeting in seventh grade, our high school friendship, our college years, and us being real grown ups together. I described what she was like as a mom, a wife, a nurse, a daughter, a friend, and a child of God. I think that writing those words and sharing them that day was just enough of a band-aid for me to be able to put off this, yet as Christmas Eve draws closer each year, I feel the tug.
Losing Holly was nothing like losing my dad. His death was sudden and unexpected, and our relationship had been complex, disjointed. In dealing with his loss, there was a huge degree of unraveling the complexity of what was and what as not. A great deal of the grieving process involved yearning for something that really never existed, but there was little change to my day to day. Holly, conversely, had been sick off and on for many years. In fact way back in 2013 I wrote about the unexpected joy I received from the extra time I got to spend with her babies while she went to cancer treatments. After several years of her cancer being in remission, she found out in April 2016 that the disease had metastasized. I was in the hospital having just given birth to Baby Hatch, and being the dear soul she was, she waited until I was home and surrounded by family to share the awful news.
In the years that Holly was sick, I often found myself struggling with anticipatory grief. I knew, barring a miracle - and my goodness did she ever believe with her whole heart that a miracle for complete healing was possible! - what was coming. At times, my mind would get the best of me during visits with her. What should have been happy times were overshadowed by the undercurrent of my conscious recognition of what the terminal diagnosis meant. I found myself imagining what life would be like without her. She was my person - the one who knew the good, bad, and ugly and loved me just the same. Always the first person I'd call - whether for happy news or sad, and I just couldn't even imagine what life would be like without her.
The time from the metastasis till that fateful Christmas Eve was four and a half years, Those years were full of beautiful times and awful times; good news and devastating reports; strong days and weak days; peace and calm and "hornet in the chest" anxiety. Throughout it all, there was an undeniable, impenetrable faith that was an inspiration to not just me, and not just her loved ones, but quite literally anyone whose path she crossed. One thing is for sure: in facing death, Holly showed each of us how to live.
My writing here is not intended to be another eulogy, but rather the sharing of my grief journey. The older I get the more and more I recognize that we are human beings whose lives are often molded by loss. If we are fortune enough to love deeply, then we will know the experience of also losing deeply. In the weeks after Holly passed, I read a copy of a book that she had not only read and recommended but had also jotted notes in - When Breath Becomes Air. In reading it, it felt as if she were speaking directly to me as I read her thoughts in her own handwriting on being face to face with her own mortality. More recently, I've found comfort in Anderson Cooper's podcast on the topic of grief. More than once it's felt as if the interviewee was speaking directly to me whether in relation to the loss of my dad or the loss of Holly.
The truth is, I miss Holly every single day. I think of her constantly, and wish I could "do-over" some of those visits where I was too in my head to really experience them in their fullest. My children all adored their "Aunt Lala", and she and Murphy especially shared a special bond. I've done my best to walk Murphy though her own grief, and just this week, she and I had a meaningful conversation about how our holiday seasons will forever have an undercurrent of sadness, no matter how blessed and thankful we are or how joyful the season is.
On my last visit to the mountains as I drove up the winding road to their farmhouse, I was so acutely aware of the gravity of the visit, of what it meant, of what would be and what would never be again. As time and time again has been apart of my grief experiences, I found myself reaching for music. I intentionally played The Power of Two by the Indigo Girls. She and I had danced to this song at my wedding - somewhere that video exists and maybe one day I'll be ready to watch it. But on that drive, it was jarring to recognize how apropos the lyrics fit the mood...
"...if we ever leave a legacy, it's that we loved each other well... Now we're talking about a difficult thing, and our eyes are getting wet, Cause I took us for better and I took us for worse, don't you ever forget it."
I listened to that song over and over on my drive there and on my drive home. I let the tears fall, and I knew that things would never be the same. Because of Holly, I cherish every day, every moment. I recognize it is a real gift simply wake up each day and take a breath, and to, by the grace of God, watch my children grow up and even one day have grandchildren of my own.
About a year ago, I was at a doctor's appointment. The physician I was seeing had worked with Holly during her years as a nurse. When I told him about her passing, he paused for a moment and said, "One thing is for sure, this world is not a better place without her in it." I found his words not only to be 100% true when related to our Holly but also the epitome of how we should all strive to be remembered. May those same sentiments be said about us when our days are through. I never set out to be.a grief writer, but somehow the words of my heart have morphed from tales of toddler antics and breastfeeding woes and second graders with potty mouths to trying to wrap my brain around the collective experience of deep love and how it transfers to deep grief.
It's been a long December, and there's reason to believe, maybe this year will be better than the last.
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass.