We were given my mom’s cancer diagnosis in early November 2011. Shortly after, she was at Princess Margaret Hospital receiving treatment.

That’s where we celebrated Christmas. It would be our last one together as a family.

I don’t remember much from that day. Mostly the room that was set aside for us.

It was cold. It was brightly lit, but a shadow hung over it. The walls were painted a pale pink, I think. That colour they paint French classrooms, the one said to calm rowdy students.

There wasn’t a tree, no festive lights. Just a cutout of Santa taped to one of the walls.

It was a sad attempt at holiday cheer.

We exchanged gifts, my dad and mom, my sister and me. But our hearts weren’t in it. The only thing any of us wanted was for her to get better. For her to be healthy and at home.

So, we put on a show for each other. A show of hope to mask the fear we all felt, faking happiness to cover up how worried we were.

We tried to pretend it was normal, having a merry Christmas in a place full of final goodbyes. Less than 11 months later, we had to say that final goodbye.

Playing the Grinch

The holiday season hasn’t been the same since.

Every year, I find myself putting on a similar performance. Like it’s all holly and jolly and not just one extended sad, silent night.

It’s a poor act. The anger and sorrow always find a way to the surface. 

It manifests in indifference to the thoughtful gifts given to me by my partner. Or thoughtless participation in the moments we share together throughout the month and into the New Year.

I become cold and hurtful, like the Grinch.

I tune out the world, close myself off, and shut down. I’m there, but not really, just going through the motions.

But the cost is too high.

Unwrapping the past

Grief is an odd thing. Strange how it ebbs and flows, how certain events act as triggers. My mom passed more than 13 years ago, but her loss still feels sharpest this time of year.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s a way of unwrapping the past. Maybe it’s a form of healing.

You see, Christmas is about giving. Not gifts or superficial stuff, but love. It’s about spending time with people you care for and who care for you.

Christmas is about being together. Being present.

But I haven’t been present, I see that now. I’ve been distant, trying to avoid the memories of that day in that room.

By doing so, I’ve been missing the chance to make new memories with my friends and my family and my partner. By trying to drown everything out, I’ve been creating more pain—not just for myself, but for those closest to me.

So, rather than trying to forget, I’m going to remember. Not my last Christmas with Mom, all the Christmases before that.

• Like the one at the cottage when she decorated the most Charlie Brown tree ever—pretty sure it was just a branch.
  
  
• And the one when I saw an elf under the tree, which ended up being a pillow shaped like Hulk Hogan—my sister still hasn’t let me live that down.
  
  
• And the one when my parents gifted me my first guitar—more than 20 years later, I still have it and still play it.

Or how about this one: the one when I get to wake up beside a beautiful girl with our two tiny dogs in our penthouse apartment. Talk about a gift.

Christmas won’t ever be the same without my mom. But it doesn’t have to suck.

I can allow myself to enjoy the season, to enjoy what I have. I can allow myself to let go of the past and look forward to the future.

I can allow myself to have a merry Christmas.

Remember, the best present is time with your loved ones. The time you have right now—cherish every second.

Happy holidays, folks.