For as far back as my memory reaches, December has been the very most anticipated and magical time of every one of my years. December—the month that contains both my birthday and Christmas! The month that always meant Christmas decorations and winter weather and holiday baking with my mom and sister and gift giving and receiving. I remember sometimes lying awake in my bed as a child, filled to the brim with perfect joy whenever I even thought of December, no matter how many months away it still was.
When I grew older, December started to mean plenty of stress and final exams, but it still never lost its magic, and I don’t think it ever will. Not as long as I have the memories of how this month should feel.
But there’s no denying that December is different this year.
Some of the people I love most in the world are suffering, and because they hurt, I hurt.
My husband has been dealt a rough deck of cards this year. More crap than anyone should have thrown at them, and all at once. And my mom… my poor, sweet mom.
On Friday, December 2nd, it was Edd’s birthday. He’s currently in a hospice facility while things are set up at their house, and he is confused and sometimes sad and really, he’s not quite HIM anymore. His mind is damaged, though his sweet spirit still shines through.
I brought some carrot cake cupcakes (his favorite) and sat with him and my mom for a while. We listened to him talk and sometimes cry, though very little of what he said made any sense. The seizures or the cancer or the meds or some combination thereof have him only part of the way here anymore, and we’re really not sure if there are days or weeks or months left now. But as I watched and listened and smiled and laughed with my mom and Edd, even though sometimes it was like speaking to a child, I was overwhelmed to witness true love and purity of spirit, which shone brightly through the fog of disease in Edd’s case, and through the grief in my mom’s.
I drove home on that drizzly Friday, practically parked in the lot that is rush hour Austin traffic, and I cried. I cried so hard I could hardly see through the tears. And yet somehow, all at the same time, I felt happier than I’ve ever been. How can that be?
An excerpt from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran (one of my very favorite books) states that “the deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” And I believe that, and it makes so much sense now.
Tomorrow I will be one quarter of a century old, and my goal for however many moments or days or years I have left is to live them fearlessly. To experience fully—not just the good times, but also the sad times. Because there’s beauty in them, too.
It may not be a perfect December, but I have a feeling it will be one I’ll never, ever forget.
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