Grief Around the Holidays

Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! Season’s Greetings! Be of good cheer!

Um, wait a minute. I’m just not feeling it this year.

Just about everyone I know experiences some sort of negative emotional tug during the holiday season.

Our current commercial climate sets us up for unrealistic expectations of cheer and goodwill. How can we not be let down when our reality doesn’t match the glittering world depicted on television and social media? Our  dreams of the perfect Hallmark movie life can never be realized.

A great number of us also experience the nostalgia for the magical, sparkling Christmas season of our childhood. Or of our children’s past holiday seasons. And that magic just cannot be caught again in the same way, leaving us feeling underwhelmed or “off.” This measure of unhappiness may catch us off guard as we are propelled along by memories of excitement that just can’t be recreated.

This sadness over expectations not being met pales in comparison to the outright grief over not being able to share this special time of year with a loved one who has passed away. There is a hole in our hearts for the absent loved one. How can we possibly be happy with seasonal joy when we cannot share it with a particular loved one? Every ornament or decoration or favorite food reminds us of what we have lost.

But what about that uncomfortable, awkward grief that niggles at those who have a loved one living with Alzheimer’s disease or other dementia? They are still here with us, but just not in the way they have been in the past. There is no possibility of recapturing that perfect nostalgic feel of past holidays. Traditions must be given up or radically changed to meet the new normal.

Six years into his struggle with Alzheimer’s disease, Harvey spent Christmas and New Year’s in in a geriatric psychiatry unit. He didn’t realize he was missing the holidays, but our daughters and I felt the loss acutely. He was nowhere close to the person he had been before the diagnosis. He was adjusting to new medications, so was stooped and shuffling, his hair bedraggled. Because the unit’s washing machine was broken, and I was not allowed to bring more clothes, he had to wear a hospital gown.

The rules of this particular geriatric psychiatry unit were frustratingly obscure, but rigidly adhered to. One of those rules was that only two visitors per patient were allowed into the unit at a time. That meant that Harvey, our two daughters, and I would not be able to be together on Christmas Day. Happily, I managed to sweet talk the guard into breaking that rule for us this one day.

The unit consisted of one long hallway with rooms on either side. It was dingy with poor lighting, pieces of tile missing, and  mysterious odors wafted about. The glassed in nurse’s station was located on one side of the hallway, midway down, and faced one of the two Day Rooms. This Day Room also had a glass wall, and was the only common area with windows, overlooking the parking lot. During the holiday season, decorations were taped to the glass wall, and there was an unlit Christmas tree with plastic ornaments in the corner.

Our family gathered here, the television blaring a football game. We gave Harvey a stuffed puppy, but he wasn’t interested. There was no food to share, as bringing food into the unit was not allowed. The three of us sang Christmas carols as we walked up and down the hall with Harvey while the other residents stared at us. Merry Christmas indeed!

I share all this not to depress you, but to acknowledge that the holidays are not necessarily a joyful time for all of us. Putting on the big smile and wishing everyone Happy Holidays is not easy when you’re falling apart inside.

Next week, I’ll offer some more encouraging words, but for this week, I needed to speak plainly about the pain some are feeling and honor that.