I Took Down Christmas

And I'm not sorry.

I took down Christmas.

This year was challenging.

Our first without Dad.

I decorated a bit earlier and desperately wanted to feel that holiday magic. I did for a bit, but as the numbers on the calendar crept closer to Christmas, my sorrow expanded. The more I looked at the decorations my heart grew heavier.

It was time to pack Christmas up.

Because of social media, I have seen photos and videos of people who have shared their decision to take down Christmas; they were met with harsh judgment.

Why, I have no idea.

People, I guess.

Ultimately, it doesn't hurt others.

People can do what they want.

Leave them up or take them down.

Who cares? Why is it a fight?

I didn't have to share my reasoning; however, many are grieving, and the holidays are difficult. In my grief community, many were contemplating removing the decorations last week, myself included.

Please be gentle and kind.

We don't know people's circumstances, especially on social media; many feel they have the right to point fingers and scold.

They don't.

After a woman on Instagram received a barrage of negative comments regarding her video of packing away her holiday decorations, I inserted myself into the conversation, which I never do because arguing with strangers on social media is never a productive use of my time. However, this was a moment to educate others. I told of my decision and grief, and it's okay that people do what feels right to them; they don't need permission from the general public.

It's their house.

Their lives don't impact the people commenting negatively at all. Did it ruin their day? Their holiday?

No.

To my surprise, a couple of women commented with oh-I-didn't-think-of-that reactions.

That was my goal.

For people to stop and think.

Locate their empathy for a damn minute.

What I have learned is that grieving is not social media-friendly.

People are quick to tell you how to feel or that you are grieving wrong.

My grief is sacred, and I've exposed that in a way that feels tainted. The grief community I've joined is my refuge on hard days, but this topic comes up frequently. It's why grief communities exist. Thank goodness they do.

Social media is great for many things, but our culture labels grief and death as taboo. That's why I joined the Death Worker Collective.

Five days before my dad's passing, he said, I will never forget this, "Andrea has shown me that hospice isn't as scary as I thought it was. We have an idea of what hospice is, but she has shown me differently."

That right there is why I educate others.

When I told my parents in April of 2022 my decision to be a Death Doula, my mom was pleased and agreed there needs to be more education. My dad was happy as well, but any discussions around death made him uncomfortable. He had his reasons, and I respected those reasons. After the phone call ended, I texted him, apologizing for making him feel awkward or uncomfortable. In Dad's fashion, he responded with you absolutely did nothing wrong, and stated that he would never judge me and that he was glad I was going to school for something I was passionate about.

A year later, when Dad was in the hospital, he told every one of his nurses that I was a Death Doula. It was funny. I'd walk into his room, and his nurse would say, "Your dad was just telling me about your death work. I saw it in his chart, too. Tell me more about it."

Dad smiled. "I can never remember the word after death, so I say, worker or person."

"That's perfect," I replied.

I was his Death Doula, and his oncologist added it to his chart if any of Dad's medical team had questions.

I was transparent about his health when I posted updates, and I did the same regarding my grief, but I've backed off a bit, not sharing everything that comes to my brain.

I'm guarded in some ways.

But I'm still helping others in the grief community, whether it's hospice questions or legacy projects. I don't want to entirely remove myself from social media because the discussion of grief and death needs to continue; however, I feel my presence will be elsewhere.

My focus will be creating safe spaces online and locally for those grieving. To educate on death and dying, which was a discussion with the local cancer center. They wanted me to speak there, but at the moment, my time and energy were with Dad.

He told me once that there needed to be more discussion about terminal cancer and how no one wanted to talk about it.

But he did.

I always left the ball in his court. I met him where he was. Whatever he wanted to talk about. That's why I can say we had nothing left unsaid—even the hard, shitty stuff—the stuff no one wants to talk about.

I couldn't save him, but I wanted to give him a good death, well, the best I could anyway.

He was ready.

And he left this world unafraid, knowing he would be safe.

Mission accomplished.

I'm leaving 2023 with bittersweet emotions, but entering a new year feels hopeful and lighter. This grief will never end because the love will never end, and I am focused on that.

The love.

Love meets us here.

It reminds me of verses 18 & 19 of The Thunder: Perfect Mind - On the day that I am close to you, you are far away from me. And the day that I am far away from you I am close to you. I...of the heart...of the natures. I am he...of the creation of spirits...request of the souls...

Dad's presence of love remains; that is all the light I need to walk through each day.

He fought to remain earthside for as long as he could.

I will do the same.

Farewell Christmas decorations and farewell 2023.

May the new year bring and hold us in hope, love, strength, truth, and peace.