‘Tis the Season

When you think of the saying “tis the season,” you think of Christmas, or the Thanksgiving-Christmas combo. But in my mind, the “season” starts with Halloween.

If you’ve been around here for a while, you know that Halloween is a National Holiday (caps-intentional) in my household. For as long as I can remember, I have loved Halloween. There are many photos of me as a young kid in various costumes, from a yellow M&M to a clown, to a gypsy (clearly before we cared about being politically correct). Then as a college student I had multiple costumes a year that bordered on ho-tastic. Thigh high stockings were often involved. As an adult, I came into my Halloween new self, and decided that full-body unitard costumes were my new love. I was a treasure troll (nude unitard), Smurfette (blue unitard), a Hershey Kiss (silver unitard), an Oompa Loompa (hand-dyed unitard), etc etc etc. When I moved to New York, we often had big group friend costumes like Wizard of Oz and Care Bears. Eventually when Chris came into the picture, I folded him into the group costume sometimes, like Winnie the Pooh (he was Christopher Robin) or Ninja Turtles (he was a slice of pizza). Some years it was just Chris and me, like when we were a gumball machine and a quarter, and Blue and Steve from Blues Clues.

My costumes often involved some sort of stomach stuffing or camouflage. As I mentioned last week, my body-dysmorphia contributed to my costume choices, and they often involved stuffing the stomach of my unitard. After many years of stomach-stuffing, it was ironic last year when I was actually pregnant on Halloween and I again wore a unitard but did NOT want to draw attention to my stomach. I hadn’t told any of my local friends yet, and in fact, during our annual traditional Halloween Pub Crawl, I told my first friend in NYC, so she could help be a decoy as I ordered gin and tonics, sans gin.

I remember that day so well. I woke up to put finishing touches on Chris’s and my costumes, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I googled classic poses so we could do a side-by-side picture with the cartoons. I remember being relieved to find one picture where they were sort of leaned over. It was the perfect pose to hide a stomach and not cause any speculation. We headed down to the pub crawl and I somehow got my friend away from the crowd to tell her our news. She was so happy for us. I spent all day drinking tonic water and pretending to be drunk. At one point, another friend asked me why my drink was in a larger cup than hers, and I had the quick thought to tell her I had ordered a double. I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that answer on the fly and presenting it in a believable way, but my brain was crystal clear, after all, I was sober and she was not.

I was SO tired, and I didn’t know if it was from being pregnant or from traveling back from Australia, and then to Los Angeles and back the previous week. All of my recent travel gave me a perfectly legitimate excuse to leave the pub crawl early. When I got home I was so relieved that our secret was still safe and I had made it through a day without anyone knowing.

I was already brainstorming costumes for the next year. I figured that I might not be at a pub crawl, but I definitely planned to have a family costume including a 4-month old baby. How exciting to have a new configuration for a group costume! I was researching ideas online of family costumes with babies involved. I had a running list of ideas. How naïve and positive of me to assume at 8 weeks pregnant that I would have a whole alive baby the next year? It seems crazy to think that that same girl now can’t even picture what it would be like to have a child that’s alive.

Thanksgiving brings even worse memories; I was 12 weeks pregnant. As you know, the Macy’s Parade holds a very important space in our family’s traditions. I’ve been attending since I was a baby. Last year, I went to watch with my sister. I was pregnant and she knew, but my parents didn’t know yet. It was 6 am and we were waiting hours for the Parade to start. Usually we stood and played games, but I felt so nauseous. I sat on the ground and munched on a protein bar and tried not to throw up. I was scared to drink water because I knew I would have to pee. I was planning to tell my parents the news the next day and my sister and I were predicting how it would go. I remember saying I thought they’d cry. I remember talking with my sister about how the next year I couldn’t watch the Parade in person because I’d have a 5.5-month old. She said I could definitely bring her, and we talked about how it would work out. Now Thanksgiving is around the corner and the thought of watching the Parade and NOT being nauseous makes me nauseous. Thinking about watching the balloons go by without a baby on my chest is so depressing.

December holidays bring another additional set of depressing thoughts. Chris and I had many conversations about what religion we would raise our kids. We decided we would incorporate both of our religions. The thoughts of a baby’s first Hannukkah and Christmas were so exciting. I thought about the ornament we’d get for our tiny tree. I purchased matching sets of Hannukkah and Christmas pajamas for our little family of three when they were on clearance after Christmas. I was 17 weeks pregnant, I was home free! (Can you see my eye roll through the computer?)

When we were in school, seasons were always a sign of change. Summer was time off, vacation, camp, trips to the pool. Then every August/September marked a new year. Leaves fell and we counted the days until Thanksgiving break. Winter in Florida marked a welcome reprieve from humidity, and a trip to the beach on Christmas Day. Once I moved to New York, Christmas was magical. The streets were lit up, the tree went up in Rockefeller Center, and there was always a possibility of snow. Then spring came and we were so relieved to have more light and shed our heavy jackets.

Now, every season sucks. One starts, and it sucks, one ends, and I remember how it sucked. I remember distinctly the week after Labor Day this year, I felt like I was stabbed a million times a day as all of the small talk revolved around the questions, “how was your summer?” and “what did you do this summer?”

I was supposed to be on maternity leave all summer. I was supposed to take care of a baby all summer. My summer was supposed to be magical and the start of a new chapter of my life. Instead, I was working and trying to get through every day one minute at a time.

Here’s what I wanted to hear in September, “Congratulations!” “Welcome back!” “Can I see a picture of your daughter?” I didn’t hear any of those things.

Instead, I don’t really remember the summer. It started with our first wedding anniversary… without the baby we were supposed to have. Then was my due date… without the baby we were supposed to have. Then our meet-iversary without the baby we were supposed to have. Then my nephew’s 1^st birthday, where I was reminded that he was supposed to have a similar-aged-cousin. Then was the trip Chris and I took to try and distract ourselves from the fact that we had no baby.

How was I supposed to say that to well-meaning colleagues asking about my summer? I didn’t say that. I said, “good, how about you?”

I naively assumed that summer would be the hardest season. I thought for sure that summer would be harder than any other season because my expectations for what I thought it would be were so different from what actually happened.

But as autumn begins, I realize that my entire life, all four seasons of every single year, is going to be different from my expectations. What a doozy of a thought. It’s overwhelming.

I saw a post from a grief account on social media recently that talked about the seasons you had with your loved one who died. In my case I got only two seasons with my daughter. And I have innumerable ones left without her. How do I get through them? Every change in seasons is just a reminder that I am still here, the world is still turning, and somehow I continue to wake up. There’s a book called “How Dare the Sun Rise?” While the subject matter of that book is completely different, I think that same phrase often. I wake up almost every day in shock that the world is still existing while I am barely alive.

I’ve been talking a lot in therapy recently about trying to stay in the present. The past is filled with things I can’t change, and the future is completely outside of my control, so the only thing I can do is be in the present, try to find an ounce of gratitude for it, and continue on. But it’s hard to stay in the present when the present is so hard.

There are certain pieces of the holiday season that I will continue to observe, but at least this year, I have decided I need to opt out of some things for my mental health. I cannot fathom creating a DIY costume for just my husband and me, knowing that a crucial part of our group is missing. There’s absolutely no way I can sign up to hand out candy to the kids in my building who will come up to the door in all of their adorableness with their parents, while our house remains empty of little giggles.

I will probably still go to the Macy’s Parade and I will try to channel my gratitude that I only have to rouse myself and not a baby at 5 am to get a good spot. I will also travel to family to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas. But it’s not going to be easy. The constant comparison of what I thought the holidays would be, versus what they are, is on a loop in my mind. The only thing I can do is be honest by telling people I expect it to be difficult, and then try to give myself grace when it is, indeed difficult. At 8 months post-loss, It’s becoming harder for people to understand why I am still so sad, but I hope that reading this blog helps some people understand. I write it for myself, but I also write it as a gift of communication. I have learned over and over again that people can’t read minds, so instead, I have put my thoughts online.

Wishing you all a happy(ish) holiday season.