A December without you (12-12-25)

“And who will give you strength when you’re not strong. Who’ll watch over you when I’m gone away.”

-       Alter Bridge, “Watch Over You”

Dear Bear,

This one will be a hard one to write.

The holidays are hard. The nights are hard. The firsts are hard. It’s now been more than seven months of firsts.

Thanksgiving has come and gone – my first one without you since 1982. Now, to brace for the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. Our December anniversary.

Just thinking about spending them without you can send me reeling. So, I turn to what offers some peace – remembering our holidays together by looking at photos and videos.

Some of those photos I’ve turned to recently include our trip to Boston to spend Thanksgiving with our daughter in 2019. I’ve looked back at pictures of you with our grandchildren from the past few Decembers – with them at school and church Christmas programs, holiday gatherings. Taking our dogs to a Christmas parade in Crescent City, Florida, in 2019.

Then there’s the one of us together at our anniversary dinner last December – our 38th wedding anniversary. I never imagined it would be our last one together.

There’s one constant in all the photos of you – your smile. It never faded. It didn’t fade even though you were sick, even though you were hurting so bad on some days you could not get comfortable.

I remember the next to last night we spent at the hospital before coming home to hospice care. A rainbow appeared outside your hospital room window at UAB Women and Infants Center. It made you smile. You took a picture and we shared it on Facebook. The comments and responses from those concerned about you were abundant. You read each one.

I’ve since made many posts about you – it’s one way to deal with my grief and keep your memory alive. Telling your story, our story. So does writing this column. Maybe it will help someone going through something similar. When I posted our anniversary picture from last December, one friend summed you up perfectly when referring to your smile: “Never fading! She was the best!”

One other thing about that anniversary picture. I updated it as my Facebook profile picture. At that time, I heard the wind chimes a friend gave me last month. The heart-shaped wooden striker is engraved with the words, “Listen to the wind and think of me.”

It’s one of many signs I’ve received to know that you’re still with me. I felt you with me when I put up the small tree you picked out last December, when I hung just a few family ornaments.

I felt you at Thanksgiving – where you were missed around the table as I enjoyed being around our two children and three grandchildren. You should have been there to enjoy them, too.

I felt you over the Thanksgiving weekend when I visited the cemetery where my parents are buried in Florence. Sitting in my car thinking about them, about you and how my life has changed, your favorite song – “The Boys of Summer” – started playing on SiriusXM. I smiled. I know that was from you.

I felt you this morning when I tried to wrap Christmas presents for our grandchildren. And I feel you in things as simple as helping me button the sleeve on my shirt.

I felt you when I took our oldest grandson to a playground. We were talking about you and he told me that you visit him in his sleep to wake him up and tell him that you love him. I can’t believe he’s turning 5 next month. And I still can’t believe he won’t have his Dee Dee here to watch him grow up, to see him graduate, to see him have children of his own.

The same is true for our other two grandchildren. The youngest turned 1-year-old a week after you left this world in April, so he will only know you through pictures and videos. And stories about you. What a love he will miss.

So, how do I process my grief through this month and the holidays? How do I deal with all these upcoming firsts? I don’t know but I have talked with some friends who have helped me in this walk with grief.

One close friend told me something that has resonated the most – that grief is different for everyone. My grief is different than her grief. It’s overwhelming, it’s exhausting. It can strike out of nowhere, at any time. And that’s OK.

Another friend of ours said it took her a year just to breath again after losing her husband five years ago this month. It will take time.

A friend from our time in Florida sent me a card with a touching note. The cover simply said, “Grief is love with no place to go.”

Other friends have also offered encouragement. They tell me to point to our memories of 38 years together.

Another friend helped when I was struggling over Thanksgiving. “Try to focus on honoring her,” she texted. “She wanted you to live. She wanted you to continue living and being happy. So do it for her.”

I’ve read several books on grief and follow several social groups dealing with grief. Sometimes something I read will help for the moment. But then my grief is back.

My column last week was about Susan Blackwell, a woman I met on the beach who lost her husband of 52 years to cancer. Her advice on dealing with the holidays without a loved one – being around family.

“As you already know, missing a whole part of yourself, your other half, is something that is always there,” she said. “I am not sad, and I certainly am not lonely. But I really miss my Ronnie. Walking the beach, I am grateful for him getting us here and for all the days that we did have together.”

And then there’s Gary, our friend who lost his wife of 48 years in January. Like me, he’s facing the holidays alone for the first time in decades. We often communicate our grief with each other, and answer, with a simple response: I know.

I know I’ll enter a new year without you. It will be another first.

So, watch over me this December. It will be hard.

Celebrating our 38th wedding anniversary with Dorinda on Dec. 20, 2024.