“I think the Christmas tree was dryer than usual this year,” my husband shouted from the living room. Pliers in hand, he turned the stand’s rusty screws — each turn taking us farther away from the ribbons and celebration.
Like life, it was a Christmas with a bit of everything. A beautiful snow brought the magic, but also the white surrender of my stepmother’s battle with cancer. Like when the electricity went out Thanksgiving Day, the lights also went out on our Christmas. Within 24 hours, we went from slippers and sweaters, iPods and pie to a family traveling like the maps in the airline seat pockets — each line taking us in different directions. My son returned to college in Florida; my other son headed to the mountains with our puppy in tow; my daughter stayed with close friends and my husband and I packed somber outfits for a New York City funeral, where they always seem to wear black anyway.
My 85-year-old father has been married for close to 60 years: 23 years to my mother and 36 years to my stepmother. I walked my father slowly down the aisle after her casket, grieving the end of an era for all of us. Just as slowly, we drove in black cars of the funeral procession, the conversation a jumble of non sequiturs. Our rabbi was very interested in where my brother had purchased his retro sunglasses. My father kept telling the driver he was not taking the most direct route out of the city, searching for some control in a life stage where he had none. My daughter called my cellphone, asking if eight friends could hang out at our house even if we weren’t home.
As we each traditionally threw dirt on the casket, my father crumpled in my arms.
He’s a man who still goes to the office, a highly successful executive who watches the news and stock market carefully, and who is writing a book. But it isn’t the big things I worry about; he handles those well. It was watching him answer the door in his underwear in the morning and pouring the coffee grounds into the compartment for water that concerned me.
Arriving at their home after the burial was a mix of turkey sandwiches and conversation with people who I hadn’t seen since I wore Keds and carried around a red kickball. I watched my father nod, smile and cry — at times obviously puzzled by who he was shaking hands with.
Names, faces, coffeemakers and shirt buttons seem to be his biggest challenge. His wife was always better at that, filling in his mind when his absentmindedness always got the better of him, kicking him under the table for a social slur or gently pointing to a missed button.
By early evening, we all welcomed a quiet darkness. “Could we watch a movie?” my father asked. “We could all watch it on our big bed,” he said with the hopefulness of a child searching for soft comfort. He wanted a buttery bowl of popcorn, just like his wife used to make.
I wish I could say that when we hugged him goodbye the following morning, I knew he would be just fine surrounded by family and friends. But the truth is, I’m not sure. We called him when we landed and he assured us he was fine, and about to go to his Pilates class. The best I can do at this point is what I try with my own children: believe in them during struggle. Trust in ourselves is the most powerful gift we can receive.
Priscilla Dann-Courtney of Boulder is a clinical psychologist.
