Walking by the holiday decorations, I see the lights. It’s hard to miss them since they’re everywhere — blinking from plastic trees and dangling from the ceiling. It’s undoubtedly a well-lit wonderland, but I don’t stop to look. That is, I can’t stop.
The colored lights are an instant reminder of my dad. Memories of him carefully placing his favorite strings of blue lights on our tree bring a jagged emptiness. It’s been three years since my father died unexpectedly, and the holidays continue to deliver quite the gut punch.
I’m learning what to do with my holiday grief
Holiday grief is something I didn’t anticipate unwrapping every year. When my father passed away from a sudden heart attack, my family fell into a kind of shock. He was in good health and only a few months before, had a routine checkup with no abnormalities. His passing didn’t make sense.
In the weeks after he left us, we did all the things you do, helping my mom as best we could, but we weren’t prepared. Now, I’m a statistic fitting in with the 76% of adults who’ve lost a parent before age 59, and the 36% who don’t want to celebrate the holidays due to feelings of grief. I am 100% certain that I haven’t figured out how to do the holidays without him.
It’s the seemingly insignificant things that sneak up and trigger my grief: My first Christmas without him, I walked past the kitchen counter and, without thinking, looked for my great-grandmother’s cookie cutter. My dad used it to shape Oma’s cookies, and while he was cutting the dough, I’d hear him ask with a grin, “Did I ever tell you the story about when I was in high school, and Oma made me a secret plate of cookies?” Yes, every Christmas.
Then there were the batteries. As my dad tells it, when I was around 8, and my younger sister was 4, “Santa” forgot to buy batteries for our electronic presents. Batteries were definitely not included, and my dad drove to all the gas stations and grocery stores within a 30-mile radius only to find them closed, because, well, it was Christmas morning. “And that’s why I always have extra batteries,” Dad would explain as he slid open the stuffed-full (but well-organized) battery drawer.
These memories of cookies, batteries, and family stories all play on repeat in my head. The emptiness follows suit, and then the sadness takes its place. I can’t untangle my dad’s memories from any of our holiday rituals. So, how do I celebrate without him?
By telling family stories, I’m staying connected to my dad
Last year, my 11-year-old and I were enjoying the stillness by the Christmas tree when it occurred to me to ask: “Did you know Papa’s favorite colored lights were blue?” I told him how I grew up with all blue lights because Papa loved them so much. “And he had a system for stringing them closer to the trunk because Papa said, ‘It made the tree glow.'”
We sat together for a breath staring at the lights, and out of nowhere, my son flung his arms around my neck and gave me a surprise hug. “I like Papa’s stories,” he whispered. And just like that, a new tradition was born. My dad told the stories that meant the most to him, and now I have ones to add — all about my father. Family stories keep us connected, and it’s this ritual that helps me through the holidays. So, I’ll keep going.
“Did you hear the one about the time Oma made a secret plate of cookies for your Papa,” I asked. When my son looked up, the glow of the blue lights reflected in his eyes, and for an instant, I felt like maybe Papa wasn’t as far away as I thought.
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