I may be rushing things, but deck the halls again now.

Put up the brightest string of lights I've ever seen.
Slice up the fruitcake;
It's time we hung some tinsel on that evergreen bough.
For I've grown a little leaner,
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older... (Mame)

It's slow season for routine. Everything gets put on hold from now until the New Year. Which means I go a little bonkers. Which means I have a cold. Don't worry, I'm taking my zinc and the day off work. I'll eat my minestrone soup and nap the afternoon away. Right now I'm listening to my favorite Christmas album, The Chieftains and the Bells of Dublin. Well, I guess it ranks #2 to Bing Crosby's White Christmas, but I don't have a copy of that album. The year my mom was in the hospital on bed rest my dad and I listened to Bing Crosby straight thru to Valentine's Day. My mom on the phone today said I seem to key in on all the people that died around this time of year. Well, a lot of people did! If a sister and an aunt died one day apart in June, would I be morbid to key in on that? If you spent Christmas with your dad and your mom spent it in the hospital and you never met that brother, wouldn't you remember it?

My dad's sister died today, six or seven years ago. I remember it because I was the first one in our family to know. I answered the phone and I could tell by his cracking voice what happened--but I gave my uncle my dad's number at work and five minutes later my dad called me back to tell me what I'd already figured out. A lot of people have lost family this time of year. They lose family all year round. I know if my sister/aunt/mother/father/uncle died, I'd want people to remember. Maybe it's that one bit of Catholicism that has stayed with me.

This is from Big Cherry Holler, which I read this morning in Tazza:

"I used to bring the kids here on holidays. We came on Memorial Day, my mother's birthday, and every Christmas. When we visited the cemetary, I would tell the kids stories about their grandmothers. Jack always thought it was creepy, that I liked the cemetary and found comfort there. I tried to explain that this was part of my Catholic faith and my Italian heritage; our gravesites are as important to us as our living rooms. In Jack's Scotch-Irish tradition, a cemetary is a place you visit on the day of burial, and hopefully, not often after that. So when I came here, I came with the kids or alone, sometimes just to sit and talk to my mother." (p. 111-2)

I finished Baby last night before the graduation party.

I did a google search and found this site (HAND: Helping After Neonatal Death). Here's a quote:

"Attending the funeral or memorial service just as you would for an adult acknowledges the significance of the family's loss, as does sending a sympathy card or writing a note or poem expressing your personal feelings...

All of these things will be appreciated on the anniversary of the due date, birth date or death date just as much if not more than immediately after the baby's death. You can be assured that the grieving family will never forget, and if you love them, you cannot afford to forget either. Remember, your attempts to help will meet with the most success if you avoid making judgments and remain tolerant of all behavior (except that which is self-destructive or suicidal) no matter how strange it may seem to you." (emphasis mine.)

So anyways, Happy Advent. I'm working through my grief, because I never did before. You can't microwave these emotions. I'm not going to.