A Perfectly Imperfect Christmas

I have been blessed with many Christmases, along with the capacity to remember decades of them (which is a blessing in and of itself), but reflecting on Christmas 2015 and our Facebook Christmas Card of that year, I would have to say it was a year to remember for all of the good things that happened, as a result of all the bad things that happened in the previous four years. It is a difficult story to tell and an even more difficult one to believe; I mean, the absurdity of it all – the comedy of errors, the pain, and recovery – all culminating in my epiphany, and my growth into the woman and grandmother I needed to be.

January 2011 found me in denial about the demise of a 25+ year relationship that ended in an incomprehensible betrayal (strong words to use in retrospect, but hard otherwise to describe) and PTSD for me. Yet, I thought I was functioning, despite tearing my ACL while playing tennis with someone far too young for me to have allowed to challenge me to a singles match. Our family ritual of having a Christmas feast of traditional recipes, music, games, and photographs – one where I resided as “Big Mama” – was not going to happen that year. Still, I reveled in the delight of seeing my beautiful children and grandchildren all thriving in the world. If we had taken a photo that year, it would have revealed a saddened and confused “Meema” who still smiled because she had faith in the future; a future rooted in our family’s positive rate of survival from life’s horrors.

I struck out on my own, slightly compulsive and armed only with the defense mechanism of intellectualism and illusion of perfectionism. I became consumed with efforts to revive my career and life, this time as a single woman nearing 60 years old. Jeez, where had the time gone? How come food comes in such big packages? How does one interview with a limp, a cane, and a torn ACL? I was salt and peppered, should I straighten my hair and dye it black? I had spent several years as a freelancer where my individuality was key to my success but now had to get a full-time job and fit into corporate culture. Eek! As a wife, mother, and grandmother I had all the answers, suddenly I realized I had more questions than answers.

I had no intention of recoupling and lamented every moment not spent with my kids and grandkids; I was so happy and secure with them because I felt up-to-task in that role. Elsewhere in my life, everything was scary and overwhelming, in general, and even more challenging alone, at least at first. Like an infant, I kept standing and falling, trying and failing, until it felt natural to cook for one, listen to myself ask and answer my own questions, and function in a much younger workforce. As I learned to please myself, by just being with me, I felt stronger and more attractive! Still, no photo Christmas Card was taken that year, but it would have reflected a more confident me, one who felt she was in control of her destiny; one not willing to settle for less than a peaceful existence.

Then it started. I began to receive pressure from friends; one in particular, who said I must start dating right away, and online to be more specific, since the last 20 years of my marriage had been so unloving and because I was so old. I said no, and then that friend died, suddenly. Now, I know I did not cause her death in any way, but it felt odd that her last words to me should have been about online dating. So, like a good friend, I spent New Year’s Eve 2011 writing an online dating profile. By Valentine’s Day, 2012 I had found a reason to eliminate all of the 400 responders.

What a miracle, though, that 400 guys wanted to go out on a date with me, and how powerful I must have been to turn them all down, right? I felt like Superwoman, albeit a much older version. I thought the worst of the pain and troubles were behind me. I had no idea how bad it was going to get!

Fast forward to Christmas, 2013 and photographs of a wedding in a chapel at Las Vegas’s Bellagio Hotel, between myself and a shy widower; a dentist who managed to log onto my dating app moments before I was closing down the account that Valentine’s Day, 2012, and swept me off my feet. I was so happy and busy that I hardly noticed as both my son and daughter, in their mid and late 30’s respectively, were breaking down mentally. Their late-father had suffered from serious mental illness, and we thought they’d dodged the bullet of adult-onset mental health challenges; but alas, no.

During Christmas Season 2014, I was awakened one night by my son. I thought he was calling to firm up arrangements for our holiday get-together, but instead, he was hysterical because his five children had been removed from his home by the Department of Children and Family Services. I asked him why hadn’t he told me he was having troubles? His answer was, “I know how you like things to be just so, Mom. How you like life orderly and perfect. I hate disappointing you.” There was no time to process his answer. Instead, I quickly contacted the office that had taken the children, reported that I was their grandmother, and insisted I be allowed to pick them up, immediately.

The social worker on the telephone seemed happy that I called and told me where to report the next morning. I objected to them being kept overnight, but, ultimately, I had no power to make anything happen. I remember hardly sleeping a wink that night, wringing my hands and worrying about where my grandchildren were and if they were safe and cared for. I knew they’d be upset about not being with family, they hadn’t spent a night without their family since their births. At that time, the children were 10, 5, 4, 3, and one year old. I cried and prayed the night through and arrived on time and puffy-faced at the facility the next morning, only to be told that the Court had taken custody of my grandchildren, separated them, and scattered them throughout the system. Well, as you can imagine, I screamed and cried and stomped my foot in anguish. It was of no use. To these people, I was invisible.

As if my son’s situation wasn’t bad enough, at the same time, my daughter was becoming increasingly ill, and her two children were showing signs of distress. It was obvious they, too, were desperately in need of help. It became clear to me that I was the only one capable of saving my family. My search for answers was blocked at every turn by HIPAA laws with regard to my children, and the by Courts as far as my grandchildren were concerned.

My new husband listened intently to what was happening as if I were speaking another language. I eventually discovered it is nearly impossible for others to understand such a situation unless they are personally involved, and though we were married, he didn’t see himself as personally involved. There was no mental illness in his family and, frankly, he wanted nothing to do with it. He always concluded our conversations by saying he loved and supported me in my efforts, whatever they may be, and to “keep him posted.” He later admitted he never thought it could be resolved, and that he secretly thought I wouldn’t survive my efforts.

But resolution did occur! It wasn’t immediate and it certainly wasn’t easy, but I did survive. During the process, I took a good hard look at my thinking of life as only livable when it is perfect and came to the conclusion that is a wrong belief to have. There came a time when the only thing I wanted was to be able to hold and kiss and love my children and grandchildren, regardless of what they had or hadn’t done, what their medical status, etc. It must be much healthier for everyone to have a mom and grandmom like that! The joy of our reunion is indescribable to this day, and changed me for the better, forever!

This brings me to the Holiday Card I am featuring. This photograph was posted as our 2015 Christmas Card on Facebook (a newer tradition in our family) and is of me and my seven grandchildren, on the other side of many (not all) of our challenges, i.e., with Dads and Moms in residential treatment; after countless single visits by Meema to each of them at numerous foster homes; after thousands and thousands of dollars spent in legal fees to get them reunited in kinder-care; after making sure that everyone was safe and sound and able to be swept up in “Big Mama’s” arms, again. I hope this picture conveys how thankful I was to be with them on that Christmas Day!

The photographer wanted to keep trying for a better picture because of what you see in this shot, and I said no. I would rather remember my grandchildren this way. My granddaughters – sleepy, unhappy, and nose-clearing princesses, my lovely blue-haired oldest and crying youngest, along with my two grandsons, both busy being themselves. To me, this moment on Christmas 2015 was perfect and I wouldn’t have them any other way.