Christmas has arrived again, I am still here, and Roy is not. The first Christmas after Roy’s death was bearable only because it was built on a foundation of determination, numbness, and fear. The numbness and fear have subsided some this year. Determined not to repeat the painful “First Christmas,” I decided to run away for the “Second Christmas.” I have never been a person to run away from problems, at least not physically. So here I am spending the Christmas Holidays in Hawaii. This was not a clean runaway exactly; my granddaughter is here in Kona visiting her maternal extended family. On my own most of these eleven days, I have managed to escape many of the emotional triggers of forty-two Christmases with Roy. I knew that I could not run away from pain; there is still the dull ache of emptiness and the angry feeling of being cheated out of life not matter where in the world I breathe air. Roy loved Christmas! He was Santa Claus after all. The suit did not make the man; he gave himself to our family, and provided a sense of magic and wonder for three generations of children. His life was about family; Christmas was a time for “Santa” to touch every child and adult.
There is a certain cognitive dissonance experiencing Christmas in a tropical place. Dreaming of a white Christmas is a far away thought. Palm trees, sandy beaches, and the ocean breeze, make the Holiday season almost unrecognizable. I do not feel the over-bearing presence of Christmas, which eases my anxiety. There is a Christmas tree in the hotel lobby, an imitation fir, looking horrible out of place among the palm trees and anthuriums. Many of the traditional Christmas songs are accompanied by the smooth deep sound of the alto ukulele strummed in the background. The temperature is too warm for the thick fuzzy Santa suites of the northwest; one poster portrays Santa as a brown-skinned man wearing a red Hawaiian print shirt and shorts.
Christmas Day turned out to be pleasant. I spent a relaxed and laid back Hawaiian day with my granddaughter’s blended family. I I love watching children on Christmas morning. Their excitement of new toys, endless amounts of sweets and candy, and playing games, took me right back to my own childhood Christmases and those of my children. The spirit of ‘ohana’ (adopted family) was ever present, and symbolized for me the deepest meaning of Christmas.
Grief is isolating, the social transition from coupledom to singledom is daunting, full of assumptions and continues to be very challenging especially when I travel. I have managed to accept Roy’s death but the grief of the loss of tradition is difficult to explain as I take on a single person identity. At times I feel as if I am wearing a big Hawthorneian Scarlet “W” on my chest. Walking into a restaurant the conversation usually goes something like this: “Dining alone?”
“Yes,” I reply, which is usually followed by a discerning look as the host tries to figure out why a woman would be dining alone especially at a vacation resort. Sometimes the host will engage in enough conversation and I will disclosure of my widow status. If not I am treated like a woman who “done wrong,” why else would I be alone? The food is hurriedly brought, and the check uncomfortably placed by my side before I have finished my meal. “You finished hon?” they ask in a brash tone that says hurry on out of here ‘cause you are taking up space. Can’t you see that there are a whole lot of COUPLES and families waiting to be seated? (At least I am gaining deep insight into the function of sexism, ageism, and heteronormative behavior to use in my teaching).
On the upside, Christmas on the run has provided me with an opportunity to connect to Roy’s spirit. Before I fled Seattle I was continuing to work on what I affectionately call, “The Big Purge.” In one of the dilapidated boxes in the garage I found the first Christmas present Roy ever gave me. It had been damaged by at least one basement flood, but still pretty much in tacked with the wrapping paper folded carefully inside.
The gift was the book “In Love” by Gordon Parks. A collection of photos and poems Park published in 1971. Roy had hand drawn stick images of us involved in some of the fun activities we had done in the three months of getting to know each other. Depicted in one of his stick drawings was an image of a date where he had literally placed his jacket over a puddle for me to walk on. I cannot remember the shoes I wore, but I am sure I complained about getting them wet.
My inappropriate choice of shoes for ‘the occasion’ became one of our ongoing private jokes. “You need good hiking boots!” He said to me when we first met. “No wonder your feet are always cold up here in Bellingham!”
I have created a Hawaiian memorial to Roy in my hotel room by placing the small vessel of his ashes that I carry with me at times next to a Santa in a snow globe. In the background flowers from a dear friend and an orchid lei completes the tribute. Roy and I travelled to Hawaii often for our winter vacations. It intuitively felt right to choose Hawaii as my runaway destination.
You are all there is, has been and will be so what you are, have become and shall be is
Through your love
What I am.
~Gordon Parks~