My December Dread

This piece on grieving during Christmas time was written for Outlish Magazine and published today.

Sitting in my living room now is a little pine tree called Eve, so named by me because she's an evergreen - the type of tree that is symbolic of a North American Christmas. At Eve's base are a handful of assorted ornaments and a box of lights awaiting my attention to pretty her up. This is a big step for me; this celebrating Christmas thing. Last year, I wanted none of it – people, pastelles (OK, no. That's a lie.), presents, pine trees, and any of the cheer they are all associated with in December. Some might suggest I needed some prayers. 'Tis the reason for the season, after all. However, the spirit world and I were at odds too.

December 16, 2010, my mother's heart failed her and she died alone in our family home. She had spent the 10th day before Christmas buying “all kynah dotishness” in a Pricemart located in west Trinidad. That night we had what turned out to be our last conversation, laughing about her weakness for bulk-buying-encouraging-big-box stores. Most of her purchases would still be in the car trunk to greet me when I made the journey home to bury her. She had bought enough Carnation evaporated milk to make ponche-de-creme every month for the upcoming year, even though it wasn't her drink of choice. She was laid to rest on December 21.

After the funeral I tried to enjoy what I could of the joyous season before I returned to life in Toronto. But my nerves were shot. Smiles were forced in the day, so I could cry alone at night. I couldn't shake the feeling of walking into my house for the first time after I arrived in Trinidad. All around were signs of life interrupted. Mummy had begun the Christmas chores of washing everything in sight, which meant the house was in a disarray. Worst of all, it smelled of nothing. No hot ochro and rice, with plenty pigtail. No lingering Estée Lauder perfume from the night before. Not even bleach. By the time Old Year's Night hit, I couldn't drink the champagne at my disposal fast enough.

My mother loved Christmas for three main reasons: the smell of ham and fresh bread, that someone else gifted to us, the lights (Ooooh. Gooood. That woman did love some icicle lights!), the runway of merriment that it provided towards her real doux-doux, Carnival.

That's why I couldn't bring myself to celebrate Christmas without her after the first anniversary of her death. I put my friends and family on notice, delivered presents weeks in advance, refused Christmas dinner invitations, and booked a seven-day cruise that kept me out of reach until the dreaded day.

“Yuh sure you want to do that?” asked my friend Rejeanne with concern when I shared my plan to stay home alone on Christmas Day, and watch whatever dregs my cable-less T.V. had to offer. I wasn't opposed to holiday movies – after all it was all make believe and required no interaction on my part. Even my partner respected my wishes, making it easier to stand my ground.

Grief is a real kill joy. Statistics show that approximately 150,000 die around the globe each day; yet, during the holiday season the death of a loved one seems to leave a wound that is more raw and slower to heal. Those in the path of the bereaved are torn between celebrating and consoling.

Grief is also ambitious – five stages worth of ambition documented in the late 60s as denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. There's no telling what stage – or stages – will be present by the time the first holiday rolls around after a mother/father/grandparent/child has died.

So was I happy with my choice to put the kibosh on Christmas that first anniversary? Yes. I was sad and wanted to be okay with that. From the day Mummy died, all I heard from friends and family with the best of intentions was, “be strong!” And while I discovered the kind of strength it takes to deal with the sudden death of your way-too-vivacious-to-be-gone mother, I needed a break. I know they were just doing their best to support me, but I am grateful that I was also able to express what I needed to do to support myself.

I can think of one more attribute for grief. It's a personal thing. The ebbs and flows are completely dependent on the person having the experience. And even if you haven't experienced a personal loss, you can rely on your compassion skills for guidance. You don't have to say and do the “right” thing – or say and do anything at all. Just be open and accessible.

Lately, Mummy has been occupying my dreams a lot, as the second anniversary of her death approaches. Some dreams paint imaginary events, as if she were still here. In the last slumber-induced episode she was dressed head to toe in an African Carnival costume, chipping behind her beloved steelband, Starlift. Others take me back to the day of her funeral. Seeing her in the coffin for the first time and panicking through wretched cries that the gold hoop earrings I chose for her weren't visible. She never left the house without earrings. Peering out at hundreds of faces my eyes couldn't focus on as I read the eulogy. Standing by the six-foot-deep grave when I had requested nine. Suddenly the Triniology – he gimme ah six for a nine! – all made sense.

Planning a funeral in a Trinidad wrapped up in Christmas preparations is no easy feat. The other three feet for the grave never materialized due to the seasonal skeleton staff in the Woodbrook/Mucurapo Cemetery. A couple opportunistic gravediggers offered their services on the spot , which of course came with an on-the-spot premium price and a request for grog. I declined.

Non-existent funeral personnel wouldn't be so distressing, if death didn't seem so pervasive and prevalent at Christmas time. People just seem to die more as the year comes to close, and in threes. At my office, at least one colleague has lost a relative every year for the three years I've been there. The most recent, Patsy, is a fellow Trinidadian who just returned from saying goodbye to her grandmother at a Hindu cremation. And although she is having a hard time enjoying the soca parang being shared around Facebook, she has two young boys and no luxury to tell Santa to pass back next year.

Some call the November/December death-wave a cleansing to make room for new life. Maybe some are on to something. My cousin's daughter was born two days before Mummy, her grand-aunt, made way for her.

For those reading this, praying for the next two weeks without their beloved to pass, consider this: the time it takes to heal passes with certainty, even though it's uncertain how long that really is. All you can do is be kind to yourself. Pay attention to what your mind, body, and spirit are telling you. Listen. Share your wishes with those closest to you. I'm glad I did. Now Eve and I can get our Christmas on this year with lights that would make Mummy smile.

Train of thought

Subway rides, or any commute for that matter that doesn't involve taking control of the wheel, are great times for pause and reflection.

Today, my train of thought brought a memory of mummy and a private chuckle as I remembered her propensity to get vexed.

She got vexed when she was scared; vexed when she was hurt; vexed when she was sad; and vexed, of course, when she was supposed to be.

One Christmas, we were hanging curtains, a chore I was tasked to do once a year, and if I was home for a visit, that is part of the "puttin away the house" tradition that many a West Indian household toils hard at in December. I coaxed mummy into climbing onto a chair, a rocking one no less, to handle the curtain rod while I handed her the new sheers. Well boy! Almost in the same instance that her knees started to buckle and shake with fear, as she failed to balance precariously on the chair, she started to cuss. They were small words compared to some of her favourites. But two things were clear. She was too old for that "dotishness" (aka climbing) and I, the young and capable one, was not to ask her to oblige ever again.

The Long Silence

It was a grey day in Toronto today; not unlike my 30th birthday a few days ago. It was April 26 and the messages and calls started coming through early in the morning. But a specific number was never displayed on my caller id and I didn't hear the rendition of “Happy Birthday” that I most wanted to hear. This birthday was not only significant as I “crossed over” to new age territory, but it also marked the first milestone that mummy and I would not be able to celebrate in some way.

I've begun to think about mummy's death as The Long Silence. Living “in foreign” and away from all the things that would remind me of her makes me feel like I'm in a cocoon. And when I realize, in those quiet moments, that I can't simply reach out to her or dial the first phone number I ever had and hear her laughter as she admits to "beppin" in front of the T.V. that is watching her more than she is watching it, I panic. My heart races, my breath quickens and I relive that moment. The news is made fresh once again. And, depending when the moment hits, I swallow hard, force my breathing to slow down and refocus.

On my birthday I tried very hard to remember her singing. But in the end, I was not quite sure whose voice I was hearing, hers or mine. I'm still hoping for the former.

Bound by truth

Last September, I joined a group of 12 strangers for a 10-week, creative non-fiction, writing workshop called “True To Life Writing” at Ryerson University. We all seemed to share two things in common: a desire to write and the fear of calling ourselves writers.

We were an eclectic bunch, bringing life to a classically bland classroom and bound by a code of silence that asked that we didn't share our writing with anyone (partners and confidants included). At least part of the rationale for the latter was to save our still fragile writers' egos.

Every week we would write, our imagination sparked by a word or scene painted by our instructor, Beth Kaplan. Then the following week, one by one, we would share our unedited, uncensored interpretations. The “feedback sandwich” would be passed around the room, with full critiquing license left for Beth who would edit for grammar, technique, flow and other such important writing things.

While using literary devices such as "suitcases" (or hidden nuggets that when revealed tell the real story, as Beth called them) remain top of my mind since we went our separate ways in December, the greatest reward was experiencing the level of trust we all placed in each other. The class was our safety net where judgement was left at the door. I shared more of myself with the group than most people I've known my entire life.

While still trying to grasp the reality of mummy's death, I reached out to the class, remembering the stories I had shared of my relationship with her and knowing instantly that they would understand the depth of my loss.

The end of the workshop was bittersweet. I was proud to have made it to the end, though some days I dragged myself there after work. But I was also fearful that I would not be able to keep up the momentum of writing as I allowed life to get in the way.

Thankfully, our relationships did not end with the class. We are now meeting once a month for “True To Life Writing Beyond Ryerson” at a little coffee shop and I feel fortunate to be a part of these writers' journeys and to have them be part of mine.

No April's Fool, just a writer

Two days ago, I told a dear friend that I think I may need to talk to someone – a professional. The night before my 10:20 a.m. revelation to her over a Google chat I was standing in the shower in a mad fit, flip-flopping between crying and composure. A montage of the events of the past four months flashed before my eyes. Hearing my father say, “mummy died.” Viewing her body at the funeral home. Delivering my point-form eulogy. Touching her face in the coffin at the cemetery. Forgetting to say “I love you” at the end of our last conversation.

As our virtual conversation continued, she asked why I didn't express what I've been feeling through my writing. I know I have a history of burying my emotions. What I didn't know was that I have been using sleep and drivel on the TV (Say Yes to the Dress, Jersey Shore, Real Housewives – need I say more!) as drugs to tune out.

Sometimes my thoughts scare me. I'm afraid to see them on paper, on the screen. Sometimes I feel the inside is just too ugly to share with others or for me to even read to myself. Sometimes I think I need a F-bucket to purge my thoughts out into.

But (aye-aye moment alert!), her final piece of advice during our chat made me rethink the way I've been censoring myself.

“You know you're in control right?” she asked. “If you want to write and burn it when you're done, then do that; if you want to write and file it away to never return to it, then do that; if you want to write and post, then do that.”

I decided to run with choice #3, for today.

This blog is about my journey of becoming, experiencing, stumbling, loving, living, but first to begin...