FACING MY FIRST CHRISTMAS AFTER THE LOSS OF MY HUSBAND
by Diane Dettmann
On Christmas Eve day, I stuffed my sweats into an overnight bag, along with
John’s picture, and headed to my sister’s. Christmas songs whirled through the
car as I drove north along County Road 18. As I passed through Stillwater,
couples holding hands and a few last- minute shoppers shuffled along the
sidewalks, gazing into store windows. The holiday music and lonely drive threw
me into a panic. I gripped the steering wheel and searched for a place on the
scenic road to turn around. I didn’t want to worry my sister, so I kept
driving. To calm myself, I shut off the radio and pushed an Indian flute music
tape into the cassette player. Giant pine trees and snow drifts flashed by the
windows. I forced myself to focus on the gray road ahead while the gentle flute
music calmed me.
Standing in the entryway, I set my shopping bag of gifts on the floor and
stomped the snow off my boots. Mary sprinted up the steps and hugged me. She
squashed my coat into the hall closet. When I walked down the steps into the
living room more hugs and Merry Christmases greeted me. My friend Paula jumped
up from the couch, wrapped her arms around me and whispered, “Glad you came.”
After dinner, laughter and holiday music filled the room. With amber logs
glowing in the fireplace, we toasted family and friends. Like a bandage over a
fresh wound, the festive mood hid my pain while we sat around the tree, sipped
our drinks and took turns opening gifts. My brother-in-law snapped photos of
Paula, Mary and me sitting on the hearth. Wearing a black sweater and the
silver seagull necklace John bought me at our favorite art gallery on the North
Shore of Lake Superior, I stared at the camera and tried to smile. When the
flash went off my brother-in-law joked, “Ah, come on girls, give me a smile.”
With the fire crackling behind us, I
pushed a fake smile across my face as the flash went off. After everyone left
we picked up the scraps of wrapping paper, the empty beverage glasses and said
goodnight. Standing alone in my niece’s bedroom I realized I had forgotten to
take my antidepressant pill. After brushing my teeth, I washed the pill down
with a glass of water, clicked the bedroom door closed, and pulled John’s photo
out of my travel bag. Dressed in my sweats I lay on the bed, brushing his cheek
with my finger . . .
Christmas morning arrived with partly cloudy skies and a glimmer of
sunshine. In our pajamas, we sipped coffee and opened more presents. Halfway
through the morning, I crashed. I wanted to go home. The smell of ham roasting in
the oven nauseated me. Mary insisted I stay for dinner. To calm the grief
rumbling inside me, I walked upstairs to the master bedroom and curled up on
the bed. I took deep breaths, determined to make the pain go away. Nothing
helped. Mary appeared at the door with an afghan in her arms. She smoothed the
handmade throw over me and asked if I was hungry. I shook my head. She rubbed
my arm and closed the door behind her.
Read more about the ups and downs of my widow journey in Twenty-Eight Snow Angels: A Widow's Story of Love, Loss and Renewal in ebook and paperback.. Information at http://www.outskirtspress.com/snowangels
