My mother died on December 21, 1987. My dad died on December 6, 1991. My grandmother died on December 26, 1976. It’s a lot of memories of death during a month that is supposed to be merry and joyous. But for many people, the holidays bring a round of grief from loss. Whether it’s natural, or man-made, like divorce, millions of people suffer from some symptoms of depression during the season.
My mom’s death was the hardest and I’ve never gotten over it. It started with the flu—it was the first year she hadn’t gotten a flu shot—and in four days she was dead, from massive infection. I stood helpless at her bedside, talking to her, even though she was only awake the first day she was in the hospital. This was the hospital where I started my nursing career, going to their nursing school and working in the very ICU my mom was now struggling to live in. They assigned all the veteran nurses to care for her because I had just left working there the year before. I still knew all the residents and attending physicians and they tried to include me in mom’s care, showing me her lab results and what medications she was on. But nothing got through because, at that moment, I was a daughter, not a nurse.
We took mom off life support on December 21st and she passed away, my father at her side, at 7:30 p.m. I couldn’t believe my best friend and supporter was gone. I felt lost and alone. I was twenty-seven, single with no kids. How was I going to go on? That Christmas, I went to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve and tried to make the best of it but I couldn’t stay long. I cried all the way home. I went home to an apartment with my two cats and no tree or decorations, because I had planned to decorate over the next few days. The day after she died, I went on a shopping spree, hoping that it would be therapeutic to run up my charge cards on gifts for my nephew, who was just four months old. It helped a little. But I still had to get through the quiet nights, trying not to re-live my mom’s death over and over again in my head.
The next few years I deliberately put myself on the schedule to work Christmas Eve and Christmas night. I’d go to my brother’s house for Christmas dinner, exchange gifts, and leave at 6:15 p.m. for work. It got me through. But every patient I cared for over those years reminded me of my mom and her fight for life. I was a robot, pushing my grief back in my mind while I worked to save lives. I didn’t want anyone to die around the holidays, but in my years as a Flight RN, we always had at least one burn patient from Christmas tree fires, or victims of drunk driving accidents. It reminded me of how careless people are about life; it seemed like no one in the world understood how much a loved one is missed at Christmas.
I moved to Florida in 1994 and flew home for Christmas in 1995. I did it to surprise my nephew, who told me how much he missed me on the phone on Thanksgiving. He was eight years old and after my brother picked me up at the airport, I went up to the front door of the house and knocked. Timothy came to the door and screamed with delight; “It’s Aunt Sandy!” he yelled to his mom. That was a nice Christmas, except I had to leave on Christmas afternoon to fly back to Florida for work the day after. Three years later I married my husband and we spent the holidays with his parents, grandfather, sister and brother-in-law and niece. It felt good to be in a family again, but I missed visiting my mom’s grave and seeing my own family and friends.
