The first week of the school holidays was busy with many activities and preparations for Christmas. We took each day generally relaxed and did not push hard to complete any tasks. "Be kind to yourself", were the words last spoken by my grief counsellor, and I did my best to do this. Our general routines for the lead up to Christmas included buying a present for a "Wishing Tree", sending Christmas cards, baking and constructing a Gingerbread House and baking assorted biscuits as gifts for friends and the residents of Trinity Place, the retirement village that my Mum lives at. As the days flitted away, and the weather hot and unbearable, it was becoming clear that many of these tasks would not be happening this year. But I did not stress and simply did what I could on each day. Other tasks began to pile up too, such as ironing, housework, answering emails and general housekeeping, but again, the voice of being kind to myself stayed strong.
Many days I struggled to even function. My general motion sluggish and without its normal purposeful movement. With only days to go before Christmas, I decided we would go to Ikea so I could purchase some smaller shelves for my kitchen, a long on-going renovation project I had begun six months ago, Sebastian could have a play in the "ball-pit" and we could have lunch before heading home. After finding everything I wanted, we headed for the food section of Ikea to see if we could find a Gingerbread Kit. I figured this would be better than nothing at all, but they had sold out. But they did have gingerbread Xmas trees, frozen gingerbread dough and pre-pressed, cooked biscuits that just needed decorating. We loaded up with goodies and headed home to work on our creations. The mood good, I put on some festive music and we worked on our creations all afternoon. That night I bagged them all up, ready for Sebastian to hand out the following day to the residents of the retirement village.
Christmas cards were also completed as was the Wishing Tree gift. I wrote our usual summary letter, printed all the labels and recruited Sebastian to help to address, stamp and write his name on over 40 cards. This was a task that was always shared by Mark and myself, but I was determined to complete them, although I did not have the emotional or physical strength, I pushed myself and Sebastian to ensure it was done.
I was also thrilled to hear from one of my friends who was about to leave Adelaide to move to Canberra. She offered to take Sebastian present shopping. It was an extremely hot day and we had attended a BBQ at one of Mark's favourite employers, so time was against us, but she insisted on taking him amongst the shopping chaos, putting her own personal needs to one side, to help us out this one last time before leaving. She was amazed at how quickly Sebastian found the perfect gifts for Mummy. He was confident and happy and excited about giving his Mum a gift she knew nothing about. I had also purchased a few gifts for myself, hoping that my Mum would wrap them with Sebastian one evening when I went out. But wrapping was not her strength, so again, one of my neighbours jumped in to teach Sebastian how to wrap presents like a professional.
I also worked on creating a memory wall of Mark. Eight photos of various sizes displaying his ever glowing smile and contentment in life. I was desperate to hang these and again needed to ask for help to ensure they were lined up and looking the best that they could. By Christmas Eve, it was all done and I was amazed that I had managed to get it all together without stress and frustration. It was now time to create new traditions, new ways of celebrating Christmas without Mark, yet still honouring him.
Christmas Eve was usually a German family affair. We would go to Church, have a German dinner, listen to German music, speak to family in Germany and open one present. But I could not bear Church or anything religious. Just listening to prayers and bible readings while at the retirement village, brought on a flood of tears. Carols having the same effect, this was just not going to be an option for me. So Mum decided to stay home so she could attend church and Sebastian and I enjoyed a dinner for two which still included a German sausage, a German herring salad and some fresh prawns. After dinner, we put on our bathers and headed for the beach, armed with six red balloons, filled with helium and with two very special and very personal letters addressed to a special man who we love so dearly and who lives amongst the clouds.
We walked along our beach, the beach we had visited as a family for years, until we found an unpopulated spot. We sat at the waters' edge and released our airmail letters. The sky was blue with white fluffy clouds and we held each other close as we watched them rise higher and higher in the sky. I held my breath in fear that they would not rise up into the sky, but instead burst and plummet to the ground. But after seemingly sitting in one spot for several minutes, they rose high into the sky, until they were nothing but a spec against the white cloud. We sobbed as we watched and then, they just disappeared into the cloud. "Dad's got them", Sebastian said, and I nodded as I hugged him tighter than ever.
We sat at that water's edge for another hour, just talking and playing in the sand. By the time we left, we had constructed a big lake, with European mountains and channels for the water to flow in and drain out. It was such a special evening, full of purpose, pain, tenderness and love.
Christmas Day was a busy one as I had invited some of our dearest friends to call in for our traditional morning Eggnog and Nibbles. The children played and laughed together, while the adults chatted. The afternoon filled with preparing a roast lunch for us plus Mum and her friend Herbert. It was a big day but a great day filled with love and laughter and lovely food and drink. By 5.30pm, the seniors were ready to go home and I was shattered. With Sebastian in bed, I curled up on the lounge and sobbed and sobbed, overwhelmed with the amount I had achieved and emotion associated with it all. It felt so strange. I should be proud of what I had achieved and yet I was so overwhelmed with the sadness that I had to do it all alone. Mark and I always did everything as a team. We talked things through, planned, delegated and executed together. Now I had no one to talk things through with and I realised that this was such a huge hole in my life.
Weeks prior I had worked tirelessly on cleaning up thousands of photographs and videos, filing digital data away in their correct location. I had not realised that things had become so out of hand and while I'm sure Mark did know this, I can only assume it overwhelmed him also and he most likely didn't want to bother me about it while I was so absorbed in my study. I spent three solid days getting all this data into its rightful place, only to find days later, that this data had somehow disappeared. My data had shrunk from 150gb to a mere 14gb. This pushed me to a point of pure panic and desperation. I put out a call for help, but little help came. I investigated and researched and understood what had occurred, but was helpless in finding an answer to resolve it. After four days of high stress and unable to remain calm about this situation, I finally spoke to an old friend of mine. We talked calmly for around 20 minutes and I was reminded just how long we had been friends. To this day, he remains the only person who understood what I was talking about and although he did not have a solution, we talked things through and he calmed me down and we discussed a possible recovery plan. THIS is the thing I miss. Someone who understands IT to the level that I do, and someone who can just talk things through with me. I didn't need to have all the answers, just wanted to bounce ideas, brainstorm, talk it through.
Being a widow is lonely, more than I can even describe. And I enjoy my own company, very much. I don't need constant stimulation or company. I enjoy the quiet, the time to think, the time to write, read and be creative. But boy, do I miss just having someone to talk things through. I don't need answers or "knights in shining armour", just someone who understands. This hole is so big and I am doing my best to learn how to live with this emptiness as it will never be filled. Sebastian brings me love and so much joy, but there are things that only Mark could ever bring in to my life. Friends do what they can, but everyone has their own families and their own set of life problems that they must deal with and I must now face a new year with more self-assured strength than ever before. The only person I can really rely on is me. I have been given this life and I must move forward and live it the best way that I can, through the pain, the void and the emptiness. Push through and keep doing the things that can make a difference in this world while continuing to raise Sebastian with the same passion and purpose. Teaching him life lessons such as the gift of giving over the gift of receiving, one of this years' proudest moments. To see how much he enjoyed giving his labour of love of decorated biscuits to the elderly residents, and to see him on Christmas morning, completely ignoring the presents from Santa, so that he could bring me his very special gift that he himself had chosen and bought, some of the proudest moments of my parenting life.
So tomorrow marks the last day of 2015 and I'm sure it will be another bitter-sweet moment as we again visit our family beach and continue our tradition of dinner at the beach, followed by playing in the sand, glow sticks and watching the 9.30pm fireworks. This doesn't need to change and we are both looking forward to yet another day of being together, having fun and talking about Dad.
