The Irreverent Widow

All chipper and bright.  Maids-a-milking and chicks dancing and drummer dudes drumming.  Sounds like a real party! And that poor partridge, stuck up there in that pear tree, afraid to come down lest he be attacked by the three horny French Hens.  Or are they French horns?  No matter. And then there are the five golden rings.  Ahhh, yes. The rings.  Which make me think of wedding rings.  And weddings. And marriage.  And MY marriage.  And my husband.  And the fact that he is now my DEAD husband. And the tragedy that was his death by pancreatic cancer, on the magically beautiful snowy morning after Christmas.  Circa 2002.  Sad is a word that does that Christmas no justice.  Yes. How I have always loved Christmas.

So now it is 2008.  Five Christmases have come and gone since then.  Five.  I can barely fathom it. It feels like…as much as I hate to say it…well, yesterday. Cliche’s do come from somewhere.  This is Christmas number six.  On the horizon. Next week.  Again, where do the days go?  The hours of tears. The tissues that are now already disintegrated in some landfill in Massachusetts. Or right here in Maine.

That Christmas season when Drew died, he told me he wanted me to find someone.  To love someone.  For our children to have someone.  I couldn’t even process the words as they came from the mouth of the man I loved.  With warm blood still pulsing through his failing body.  But I absorbed them.  And I knew that someday, I would be oh so happy he had voiced those sentiments.  Painful beyond comprehension as they were at the moment.  And sure enough, as the months and years went by, and as I began dating and searching for someone to fill that void…I remembered his selflessness, and his loving words.

I believed he would “send me someone.”  Later…when all of the “someones” turned out to be the “not-so-right-for-me-as-I-had-hoped” someones…I stopped merely passively BELIEVING he would send me someone, and started ASKING him to send me someone. When months and years continued to go by and that special someone my dying husband had promised me was still a no-show, I not only asked…I began to beg. “PLEASE send me someone. What’s taking you so long?  It’s been _____ (fill in the number of your choice) years.  How long do I have to suffer? How long do I have to wait?”

Next I moved on to SWEARING.

It got rather nasty.  It turned ugly between he and I.  ”Oh sure…you’re up there in heaven or wherever the hell and I am here…with our three children.  So where’s Mr. Wonderful??  Huh?  You’re all talk and no action. Thanks a lot.  Really.  Don’t rush or anything. I can wait around till I’m 70. No problem. It’s not like the clock is ticking and I have limited time left till my breasts are in need of a lift and my hair turns gray and I hit menopause. No rush. Take your time up there, sweetie. Have I mentioned how much I hate you for leaving me here all alone…to date these losers? “

Okay, so stop making that face.  I warned you already that it got ugly at some point.

The worst part was the holidays.  Never having a boyfriend or date during the Christmas season. It was a bad enough season for me to begin with.  A little attention/ affection/ hot sex would have taken the edge off.  Taken my mind off of my loss.  But no.  I always seemed to break up or be miles away from any sort of dating situation when it got to be Halloween. Maybe even Labor Day.

And so, to recap my resplendent years of widowed holiday dating, I submit to you the following:

“On the 1st Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

Humorous man. Warm body. Long distance. Admittedly, my  virgin “Please get me through my first holiday season without my beloved husband whom I still adore completely” guy.  Tragic error in judgment.  Cruelty (on my part) at its best. Of course, he was freshly divorced and it was his first Christmas alone, as well. Technically, we both should have still been locked in our homes in shackles.   Marked as dangerously undateable.

“On the 2nd Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

Delusional love due to strictly shallow requirements being fulfilled.  Handsome.  Right height.  He smelled really good all of the time and dressed well. Long distance… so no need for real intimacy or a real relationship.  Easy peas.  Made it on a hope and a prayer to the holiday season…only to implode mid-New Year’s Eve.  Gave me holiday gift that would have landed him in the current Saatchi & Saatchi/ JC Penney ”Doghouse” video 57suyw.  Unforgiveable Christmas gift discounts status as “holiday boyfriend.”

“On the 3rd Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

First Maine boyfriend.  Local. Two miles away.  Seemed better than 120 mile relationships I had navigated two previous holiday seasons. Started dating mid August.  Ended around Thanksgiving.  Lord knows what emotional turmoil would have ensued had it lasted through the Winter Solstice.  Pretty certain I’d still be in full-time therapy. As would he.

“On the 4th Year of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me”…

It’s all a blur. Really. No clue.  I vaguely recall writing a holiday letter on New Year’s Eve to family and friends asking them to package up any handsome, tall, intelligent men who smelled good and owned button-down cotton shirts and send them via FedEx to Maine, because I hadn’t had sex in 10 months…but I would have to search my laptop memory for proof of that document.

“On the 5th Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

Not one appropriate man. But two “kind-of-appropriate-men.”  First I cannot find any.  Then I have two.  Started dating both of them in August.  Both pretty much over by Halloween…yet lingered through holidays without any tangible benefits.  Not feasible as holiday party dates or men who could curl up next to me in front of the fireplace while my three kids played with Christmas toys across the room. But for some stellar kissing throughout the fall, seasonally useless.  Especially once we reached December.

“On the 6th Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

It’s hard to believe.  But it seems Drew has finally pulled through. Could it be that he has finally listened to my pleas?  Or perhaps it’s because I’ve been feeling so happy with my life as it is that he thought I was finally ready for someone.  I wasn’t begging anymore.  I wasn’t pleading anymore.  I wasn’t desperate anymore. I wasn’t trying to fill in that seemingly endless void created the day he took his last breath and left me here to raise our children and carry on without him anymore.  I had done my time.  I had done a lot of crying, a lot of cursing, a lot of accepting, a lot of surrendering…also a lot of writing, a lot of art-making…and a lot of healing.

So, thank you my love.  For giving me the most wonderful Christmas gift of all. My happiness. My first truly happy Christmas since you died.  I have been waiting six years to hear the first Christmas carol on the radio while I’m driving in my car without ending up in tears…sobbing for the duration of the hap-hap-happy holiday season.  This year, I heard the first carol on my car radio and didn’t shed a SINGLE tear. It felt so good. Of course, it was that ridiculous “Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey” carol….but I’ll take it.

Of course, I still can’t make it through the Peanuts characters singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” at the end of the “Charlie Brown Christmas” movie… but, hey, one thing at a time.  Ever the optimist, I believe that one day, a bunch of cartoon characters with big round heads and a dancing beagle dog wearing Christmas pagent costumes joyously shouting, “Merry Christmas Charlie Brown!” won’t make me weep uncontrollably.  But I’m not making any bets quite yet. Next year is the anniversary of our 10 year “Time Capsule” …circa New Year’s Eve, 1999.  A few months before we heard the words “pancreatic cancer.”

Please send tissues.  I’m stocking up.  With any luck…I’ll still have the present Drew gave me this year and “My 7th Year of Christmas” will be filled with more unimagined blessings, and a continued decline in Kleenex useage.