Christmas, with you still missing

It was too soon, although only never would have been enough.

I wrote that the day after you died. Christmas is approaching now, and I still don't have a better way to say it. There could have been more time. There could always have been more time. I would have asked for it, whatever we'd been given.

You were part of my excitement for Christmas. I miss looking forward to it with you. I want to feel that excitement again, and I don't quite know what to do with the fact that some of it still belongs to you.

There is one Christmas I keep coming back to.

I got up at seven to walk you. I was very hungover from Christmas Eve, which made seven feel unreasonable, though it was no different from what we did every day. Three walks. Being Christmas didn't change that. Neither did my headache.

We had matching pajamas that year. You looked a little miserable in yours, at least to me, and somehow happy too. We all were. I remember that mixture more clearly than I can explain it: the ridiculous pajamas, you beside us, the happiness of having everyone there.

I work a lot. That Christmas was one of the few days I spent almost entirely with you and the family. We shared some eggs and bacon. We watched movies. For most of the day, we lay together or beside one another. There wasn't much else to it.

I wish there had been more days like that.

Even now, I can turn a good memory into something I should have done more often. I can be grateful for that whole day and still find a way to accuse myself of all the hours I spent elsewhere. I don't want to do that to this memory. We were happy. I was there. You were there. I want to let that be true without immediately asking why I didn't manage it more.

The day after you died, I wrote that I was thankful I'd played with you the night before. I am still thankful. I don't have to imagine whether we had that time together. We did. I only wish I'd known how much I would need to remember it.

Much of what I wrote then was an apology.

I was sorry for the pain. Sorry we'd left you for a few hours, hoping you would recover. Sorry I hadn't spent more time with you. I wanted you to know that we would have done more if we could. I wanted to ask whether you had felt loved, although loving you had been such a large part of our lives.

I still go over how it happened. The pain, the loss of your vitality, how quickly things could become so different. I worry about what you might have felt and what you could have understood. I wanted better for you. I wish you could have gone in your sleep, without having to suffer first.

There are questions I haven't answered. Whether something could have been different. Whether there was something we should have noticed. I can revisit the same hours without finding anything new, then go over them again because accepting that I don't know feels unfinished.

When we left you, we hoped you would come back to us as yourself. Knowing now that you didn't makes it hard to remember how much we wanted to believe you could. I wish we'd stayed. I know why we didn't. That hasn't made me stop wishing.

I was with you at the end.

Your last moments were peaceful. There was relief in seeing you at peace after the pain, and something brutal in knowing that this was the last time I would be beside you like that. I was grateful you weren't alone. I wanted to keep you with me.

I don't want to make the whole of it sound serene. It wasn't. But I don't want the distress before the end to take those final moments from us either. You fell asleep with me there. I am glad I was there, even though remembering it hurts.

Afterward, ordinary life felt selfish.

Going back to work. Eating. Doing anything that continued when you couldn't. I wrote those things down because I couldn't make sense of them. I knew I had to eat. I knew there was work to do. It still felt wrong that I could do it while you were gone.

Christmas brings that feeling back into the things I want to enjoy. I can want a happy day with the family and ache because you won't be beside us. I don't know how much of that ache will be there when the day comes. I don't want to decide in advance how happy or sad I'm supposed to be.

I think you would want us to keep living and to be happy. That is what I believe, knowing how much joy you brought us. I can't speak for you. Some days I can barely explain myself. But I want to give that belief a little room, even while I miss you.

Writing has helped me. It helped when I first put these words down, and sharing them helps me say what I might otherwise keep going over alone. The pain is still here. I can write about that Christmas and want you back just as much when I finish.

I miss the closeness. Your excitement when you came to me. Lying with my head next to you. There are things I can remember so well that I almost resent remembering them, because I want to be doing them instead.

I believe I will see you again. I hope I will. Those words sit close together for me. I hold the same hope for others in our family who are gone, and it helps me face the life I still have.

I want to live it fully. I want more whole days with the people I love. I want to enjoy Christmas with my family, however much I miss you in the middle of it.

For now, I keep coming back to that day. Seven in the morning, a headache, and your walk. Then the pajamas and almost a whole day together.

I am glad we had it.

I wish you were here for another.

Dorian Hartwood

One world. One love. One Earth. Together in balance and harmony.

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