The Polar Express...

I'm struggling with something this Christmas.

It's not exactly grief or sorrow, either. Sure, they're always with me, but I have developed ways of beating myself up about them, reminding myself to be thankful for our two surviving children, for my husband, for our blessings. "Find your JOY!" I told myself at the beginning of the month. I even selected a holiday card with the word emblazoned across the top, our cherubic-looking children, all smiles, brother's arm protectively hugging his baby sister under it.

It's ambivalence.

I care, for their sakes, but at the same time, I don't. Things aren't exactly perfect. We've lost a row of lights at the bottom of the tree; they just quit. We haven't replaced them. The tree still looks beautiful with all of the children's special ornaments. It just has a dark space at the bottom.

I find it fitting.

I've tried to throw myself into the process this year. We had some time to ourselves, thanks to some childhood illnesses (conjunctivitis, colds, what-not) that kept us homebound for a week and a half and gave me extra time to decorate inside. That helps, a little. Then again, I start to see the imperfections. Santa Flaws.

I know our lives will never be perfect. Sometimes, the crooked picture on the wall is just going to stay that way for a while.

I try to take some pride in our home's external appearance, because if I allow it to reflect the chaos that rages within (me, at least), we'd most certainly find ourselves on the "all-stars" episode of hoarders.

I did my best to make this a very special holiday for the kids. We baked. We shopped. We waited in line to see the man in the red suit. It's always about them, about others, about making other people happy.

Maybe, just maybe, it would remind me of what that truly looks and feels like. My happy is not what it once was.

My joy comes with a pause and an extra 'oy.

There is something missing, something imperfect, something I can't quite get right about every holiday, especially Christmas.

I'll do my best to fight apathy. I know it's my defense mechanism to ward of the nasty emotions that come with the good.
I know, deep down, I really do care.

It would be completely unfair to her, to them, if I didn't.

All that glitters...

"Hey, at any rate, you can get away with experimenting right now. Go for it!"

WARNING: If you ever hear those words, ignore them.

My hair, now about 2 inches all around, is taking on a life of its own. Too short to cut, too long and unruly to train into any particular style, I'm resorting to gelling it all down or giving up altogether and letting it go where it wants to go.

On the positive side, people no longer seem to be assuming that I, myself, have battled cancer (perhaps assuming I just went for one of those easy "Mom 'dos"), but then again, they're not asking about it anymore, either, which takes away from my ability to explain why I did what I did, opening more eyes, ears (and perhaps wallets) to the St. Baldrick's Foundation. It takes a few more steps to get there, but when I can, I do. ("My hair wasn't always this short...")

There is that wicked little feminine ego inside of me, though, wishing my hair were cuter, more attractive. It made me reach for the Feria. Yes. The bottle blonde.

I now look like I've rushed into the Citgo bathroom while on the lam, chopped off my hair, and did a quickie dye-job while stuffing my old, identifiable clothes into a duffle bag before shoving them behind the john.

When I look into the mirror after a shower, everything wet and matted to my head, there's a good ol' Ken doll staring back at me.

Emma Watson's "Marie Claire" cover, I am not. Ellen Degeneres, I am not. Ryan Seacrest? Perhaps.

Maybe after a few weeks of more growth, and a shade lighter, I could have a 'do resembling Tabatha Coffey's (you know,the one who takes over the salons?)

Going somewhat incognito reminds me how well we, the bereaved, seem blend in with the normals on the outside. Sometimes it's a lonely feeling to be in a room with many people who don't realize how difficult the question, "How many children do you have?" can be. Holiday parties. Good health and good cheer.

What I encountered recently was not a shot of spirits to embolden myself to answer honestly, but a shot of perspective. At a company gathering, during polite conversation I learned about two distinguished gentlemen who had experienced their own unthinkable losses. One laid a granddaughter to rest after her second relapse of childhood Leukemia. The other, his six-month old daughter. "That was 30 years ago," he said as he looked down at the china and silver on the table. He looked me in the eyes and continued," but it's not something you get over, you know?" Yes. I do.

These men have made tremendous positive contributions to their communities and our society (one whose company was integral in reconnecting Manhattan after both World Trade Center attacks.) I was in quiet awe of their dignity, and their choice to honor their loved ones by giving back, rather than letting their grief take over.

In another dreaded venue, holiday shopping (which still makes me cringe,) I came across another of the hidden bereaved. She was the clerk who rang up my items, asking friendly questions about the toys and those for whom they were intended, sweetly complimenting Zoey who was charming her with smiles and coos from her stroller seat. Inevitably, the number question came up, and as I typically do, I explained that my oldest should be 6, but she died two years ago while battling Neuroblastoma.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Really, it's ok. I like talking about her. I'm very proud of her and know she's in my heart."

"I'm glad you mentioned her. I lost a granddaughter two years ago, too."

It was a very rare liver disease. Only 500 children in the U.S. are diagnosed each year. Listening to her lament the dearth of research funding for it, we both chimed in at the same time:

"It's because they're considered orphan diseases."

We shared a sigh. We exchanged our knowing look, and then we said to each other, "Have a Merry Christmas," before I wheeled Zoey's stroller out of the door.

Silent pain hides beneath the eyes of those rushing around us, processing the holiday stress at the same time as grief.

We are not alone.

At least she didn't call to me as the doors closed behind me, "Stay gold, Pony boy! Stay gold."

A tree, a train, and a trial...

We found our tree!



Now, if our lights were only as bright as her smile...



And if we could just let G-man do all of the decorating...



Oh, right. Then the entire house would look like this:




In my commitment to living in and enjoying each moment more, I've made a decision. I deleted my Facebook account.

We'll see how that goes.