Painful Christmas

That first Christmas after the passing of a loved one is always the hardest, especially if this happened as the holidays are approaching.

I am reminded of the pain, after learning the passing of a dear family friend. He was a good man, full of life, and always with his plate full but enjoying every second of it.

But in his busyness, he might have missed the signs or ignored little symptoms so that by the time he was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus, it was already Stage 4. Perhaps it was this abbreviated life that pushed him to accomplish as many things as he could in the time he was given.

My case was a bit more difficult, and to this day grips at my heart so I am hardly able to truly find joy in the holidays. I know it sounds Scrooge-like, but then again I wasn't so into Christmas years prior because of too much commercialism even as people kept saying this was a time to spread love and happiness and be grateful for what you have.

We lost my youngest sister in June. It was a swift passing, as only my sister could've arranged or prayed for. My father couldn't come to grips with that loss and instead of sharing his pain, chose to bury it inside, immersing himself in too much work.

That's the thing with holding emotions in, it can get very stressful. By September, he suffered a stroke, that left half his body paralyzed and unable to speak or remember a lot of things.

In the first three months of confinement (we would be in and out of the hospital after that until he eventually succumbed), there was never any mention of my sister even as all of us - mom, sister and her brood - were always at the hospital at one point or another. And my Dad made no mention of her whatsoever, so we chose to be silent about it, too.

I recall incidents in the hospital at night, when lights have been turned down and all was as quiet as can be, and my Dad would wake up from his naps and start pointing at the small dark hallway of the room as if someone was there. We would sometimes think he may have been seeing my sister.

We were finally discharged the second week of December. It would be just in time to celebrate my father's birthday, which was a week before Christmas. Celebrate we did, because it has always been him who had a party on his birthday. Unfortunately, being exposed to so many people didn't end up being good for him.

It was back to the ER on December 23. His condition wasn't as severe, though, and we pleaded to his doctors to let us out at least on Christmas Day. The clan always had a Christmas Day get-together, a tradition my paternal grandmother started and wanted continued.

He did get better and on the evening of December 25, we were on our way to the house and a party. Instead of letting people into his room, we let him stay in the living room on his wheelchair, so everyone - young and old alike - could interact with him even briefly.

That took quite a toll on him. But when inside his room, one or two of my cousins would drop in to chat a bit. It seemed like he enjoyed those moments, even if he was unable to speak.

It was the following day when I would experience the most heart-wrenching moment with my father. When I sat down with him, he suddenly lifted his good hand, palm open and was counting the fingers gesturing something.

It took a while for me to understand what he wanted to say, until he pointed to a family picture that was across the room. When I brought the photo to him, he then pointed to my sister! He was looking for her... the five fingers he was holding up was to indicate him, mom, me, my second sister and the youngest who passed away.

You know that feeling when something squeezes inside your gut and you don't quite know how to react or respond. At the very moment, it fell upon me to tell my father that his youngest daughter was gone.

As gently as I knew how, I reminded him what happened. And told him we could go visit her grave once he was stronger and feeling better. He broke down. Up until that point, I had never seen or heard my father break into tears. He sobbed and I sobbed with him as we held each other.

I will never truly understand the heartache and the pain he has had to bear all those months after her passing, so much so that he never once wanted to visit her grave even as we went every Sunday.

We held each other tight, and I know the caregiver assigned to him that day sat nearby crying, too.

Seeing all his nephews, nieces, and grandkids the day before must have triggered a memory in him to think of my sister. And why she was nowhere on Christmas Day.

Grieving our loss

I don't know if remembering his grief, the loss, made him worse instead of better. After that, we would again be back to the hospital twice for a week or two, until his last confinement of nearly a month, after which we finally let him go.

And it is that memory of December 26 that has been etched in my heart and mind since 2017 that keeps me from truly getting into the Christmas spirit in the years that followed.

So, yes, I understand how hard it can be to celebrate Christmas after losing a loved one. Because while we try to move on from the pain and grief, that exact moment when we know they're truly gone stirs memories in us, in whose clutches we are unable to break free from.

I barely had time to miss my sister on Christmas Day, she who loved the holidays and looked forward to gift-giving and wrapping, even if she did all of it for everybody herself.

And in missing her, I will always remember that fateful day when I had to remind my father of his loss and watch him come to grips with it. Which, he probably never did so he thought it was simply best to join his baby girl instead.

Images from Unsplash