Last year around this time, I'm sure I was terribly sad. But I don't remember it that way.
I recall feeling a wealth, which is to say tidal waves, of gratitude. I don't know if it was because I still felt freshly full of love and gratitude from the outpouring at Dylan's memorial on November 15. But I do remember those two things. Love and gratitude.
And it wasn't just me. The typical Christmas for us includes Jason, my mom, my mother-in-law, and Colin. And we all seemed different. It felt as though we collectively gave ourselves a buy from all the normal holiday stressors. Of course, we made sure to buy gifts for Colin and each other, and we had a nice dinner, and we did pretty much every tradition we were used to doing. But what didn't seem to occur was the normal tension over giving too many/too extravagant/age-appropriate/likable gifts, or saying something wrong, or the worry over the potatoes being perfect, or if the food was prepared smoothly or if the timing was messed up, leaving something cold, or burned.
We've always had nice Christmases. But last year felt like an elevated state of peacefulness and calm. Relief that we didn't have to see Dylan suffer on another holiday. Cognizant of how lucky we were to have had him at all. Grateful that we had each other. Blessed in so many ways.
The true, and often forgotten, spirit of Christmas prevailed.
But a lot happens in a year. Time actually does erode the sharpest pangs of grief, dulling the pointy parts just enough to provide some comfort. I noticed that, after I crossed the year mark, I felt the story of Dylan being nudged, slightly, from the forefront of my own life story to perhaps a volume of a larger set, albeit a big, thick volume.
With that, I feared that we would lose that special peace that Dylan brought. I'm talking largely about myself here. I feared that my slow reprieve from pain and return to "normal life" would also return me to worrying about petty stressors. Was everyone getting along, happy? Did we spend too much? Not enough? Did Colin get too many presents? Why aren't my scalloped potatoes getting thicker?
But it occurred to me this past Christmas Day that Dylan changed me, and everyone else close to him, permanently, and not just over one year. He came to us in 2010, a dream that we never thought would happen after failed attempts at conceiving. We almost lost him to aspiration pneumonia in 2011, then got to bring him home from the hospital two days before Christmas--and what a gift that was. In 2012 we mourned him but also breathed in the peace, love and gratitude that he left us.
Once again, the true spirit of Christmas prevailed. Thank you again, Dylan, for changing me.
