I have never before been conflicted about Christmas, so feeling
that way about this holiday is new to me. I can’t lie. I do occasionally feel
cheated when I allow myself to imagine what Kerian would have looked like
racing down the stairs in his pyjamas, hot on the heels of his big brother Mister
10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv). Even in his memorial service I mentioned that
especially at Christmas I would miss him, and wonder about him.
This year, I have felt like there’s nothing I can do for
Kerian for Christmas. I have lamented about the fact that I can’t give him
gifts and can’t dress him in baby’s first Christmas clothes. I can’t sing
Christmas songs while I rock him. I can’t buy him presents. The only thing I
can do is pray to him and hope that he hears me and knows that I still love him
even though he’s here in spirit but not in body. Then on the opposite end of
the parenting spectrum, Mr. 10Kv is three this year and believes in Santa with
all his little heart, and his contagious joy warms me like a cup of hot
chocolate after an afternoon of sledding in Central Oregon (where I grew up).
That Christmas-y closeness to Mr. 10Kv is in part what makes me wish for more
than just the clichéd white Christmas—it makes my arms ache to hold my Kerian,
to include him in all of our joy and excitement, and to watch him grow to learn
to love Christmas just as Mr. 10Kv does this year. So on Christmas Eve, just
three and three-quarter months after Kerian passed away, I felt further away
from him than ever before. And aside from sharing my grief with Pierre-Francois
(PF), I did at times that day, feel a loneliness that before then I never could
have imagined.
On Christmas Eve, PF and I took Mr. 10Kv on a leisurely
little drive to look at Christmas lights. It was chilly outside, and I was
surprised at how happy I felt. There we
were, bundled up all snug and warm in the car as we listened to the classical
music station and marveled at some of the homes with lights that when the home
owner flips on the power switch, must surely make all of the lights dim for a
moment up in Canada. We had just finished listening to “Away in a Manger,” and I
was proud of myself for not starting an all-out bawling fest when I heard the
words, “The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head,” and I pictured myself
gently laying Kerian down in his bassinette, my hand beneath his head so warm
and round.
Then the song “O Little Town of Bethlehem” came on the
radio. It was a choral version of the song, and like a church choir it sounded
angelic. And then the song came to these lyrics:
“For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love”
My mind flashed through several thoughts at once; to my
conversation with Sister Mary (the nun who prayed over Kerian the day he died) in
which she reminded me while I sobbed that Mother Mary feels my pain because she
too lost her son, she understands what a sacrifice it is when a mother loses a
child; and to 1979 when I was 10 and granted the role of the Holy Mother in the
church Christmas pageant. In that pageant, I sang O Little Town of Bethlehem
while I cradled in my arms a baby doll that someone else had swaddled for me
because I didn’t yet know how.
As the song continued, and we continued home in the car, a
lump formed in my throat and rogue tears wetted my cheeks when in that moment I
realized how incredibly innocent I had been, sitting there in church, singing
that song to my flannel wrapped plastic baby, with no hint of imagination dark
enough to picture myself 32 years in the future, on Christmas Eve, hearing that
same song on the radio and crying for the baby boy I had just lost. PF heard me
sniffle, and put his warm hand over the top of mine, and we drove on in silence
as we listened to the rest of the song.
As I write right now, I have realized something. Kerian and
I were not denied the ability to exchange gifts. It’s true that we did not
necessarily exchange them on Christmas, but we most certainly did exchange
them. To start with I gave him life. In return, my beloved boy gave me himself
(which would have been enough, I would have been happy to stop there without
the other gifts of life lessons). In the brevity of his life and his losing
battle to survive he also gave me the discovery of my own strength and courage;
the day he died I was strong and courageous for him and when they turned off
the life support machine, I managed (as I cried) to choke the words, “We love
you forever Kerian, and it’s okay to go to the light this time."
And I can give him gifts, even now, though he is with me
only in spirit. I can make good on my promise to him to be a good mother to his
brother, and a good wife to his father. I can continue to keep my promise to
him to find something to smile about every day. I might not be able to wrap
those gifts in crisp wrapping paper and sparkling bows and hand them to him in
person, but I can get up every morning, put on a smile, and think of him and
the profound gift his life was to me, and how fortunate I am to have known him.
I hope that next year I will remember what I learned this Christmas, and that I
will manage to keep my promises to my Kerian, so that I can continue to give
him those gifts.
