Facing the Demon December
© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
Mary died at home, two days before Christmas, of a brain tumor. It had been a rapid decline, forcing her to leave physical therapy school, her passion. Thirty-five years old, full of energy and life, she left so much undone. She also left Logan, a brokenhearted mother.
We began bereavement counseling began at the end of January. Soft-spoken and shy, Logan apologized for being a burden, but received me with eagerness. From the beginning tears were near the surface as we talked about Mary. The youngest of three children, Mary and Logan were especially close. She was attending a school for physical therapy in Miami, within a year of graduation. They both looked forward to her trips home for long weekends or holidays. Logan presented initially as a very typical grief stricken mother. Then she revealed complications of her grief that would be a more formidable challenge than usual.
In addition to Mary’s death two days before Christmas, Logan disclosed that twelve years earlier, her husband, an Episcopalian priest, died on Christmas day. Down the hall from him, in another unit, her mother lay ill, dying just two weeks before Christmas. The joyful holiday face of Christmas masked a terrifying demon. The month of December waited at the end of the year like a dozing dragon, ready to devour all joy and hope if aroused. Our goal became simply to survive.
Logan was born in Winston Salem, North Carolina, the heart of “tobacco country.” Her mother was a part of the high society, a friend of Libby Holman, a “torch singer” in the 1920’s famous for her throaty voice. Logan told me the story of how her mother had been at the party at Libby’s home the evening Smith Reynolds, her husband and heir to the R. J. Reynolds tobacco empire, was found shot to death. Later, following a scandalous trial, Ms. Holman was acquitted of murder and his death was ruled a suicide. Though Logan was a small child at the time, she remembered the evening her mother went to the party. Logan laughed as she thought of how she eventually married a young priest named “Smokey,” and spent their ministry years in rural New England. She mused, “His family must have thought he was crazy to bring someone like me into his family.”
The unlikely pair created a wonderful life, complete with the struggles of small church life. They raised three children who were healthy, happy, and productive. Eventually Smokey moved the family to St. Petersburg where he ended his career at the Cathedral Church of St. Peter. Logan now worked in the office near the room where we talked.
Between the educational building, with offices, and the sanctuary, was a small garden, both for aesthetics, and also used for spreading of ashes of those members who had passed away, including both Smokey and Mary. In the narthex leading to the place of worship was a wall dedicated to those in the garden, with names engraved on small brass plates. Smokey’s name was there, and in the month of March, Mary’s name would take its place. Logan told me about the wall, admitting that she had always found it sad, but now dreaded it even more. She wondered if she would ever be able to face it. When March arrived and the name was in place I asked if she would like me to accompany her to the wall so that she could look at it with my support. At first she hesitated, but then, at the end of the session, agreed to go. We entered the building and stood facing the names of her two loved ones. I put my arm around her shoulder and squeezed slightly, as the tears rolled down her cheeks. From then on, at the end of each visit, we would walk to the wall for silent meditation.
After several weeks Logan said that her grief had seemed to switch tactics. She was getting a handle on the emotional upheaval that had plagued her. She still had times of sadness, but knew how to avoid major sources of pain. For instance, though driving straight down Fourth Street was the most direct route from her home to her office at the church, she had to pass Applebee’s Restaurant, Mary’s favorite place to eat. She couldn’t bear to see it, so she drove down Ninth Street, not too far out of the way. It seemed easier than to face the memories.
Logan said it was now the little, unexpected things that bothered her, made her sad. For instance, anytime she saw ducks it reminded her of the way Mary used to feed the ducks at school. Any talk about the circus was painful because Mary used to work in a circus. White gloves, the smell of fabric softener, angels decorating department stores, anything about the state of Maine, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team, the cat’s old leash and collar, and a list of other normally innocuous things. With football season and “Buc-mania” on the horizon, and the early Christmas decorations with the proliferation of angels, there would be no escaping. I encouraged her to tell me about those things and why they made her sad. In some way, talking about them seemed to take away some of their power.
The fall season brought its share of monsters to face. Halloween had always been a favorite of Mary’s, with its costumes and collection of sugary treats. We would then be heading in to the season that would culminate in the dreaded month of December. For any bereaved person the month of November, with Thanksgiving, is difficult. For Logan, it threatened to be unbearable. But Logan was making progress. A plan began to form in my mind but I did not share it with Logan lest she withdraw and retard what had been accomplished so far. She was bravely confronting her fears, allowing me to guide her on this journey.
A common strategy to help the grieving through difficult times is adequate preparation. We discussed her plans for Thanksgiving. What had she done in the past? What were the plans this year? Should she avoid any reminder of holidays past, or would the absence of familiarity be worse? Would traditions bring comfort or pain? There was no easy way to get thought this, but she was determined to survive.
It had been almost a year since Mary died. Time, along with the relentless confronting of her grief, both healed and strengthened Logan. Just after Thanksgiving I suggested a bold and aggressive move. At first it seemed daunting, but she agreed. Along with a friend of hers, we made plans to meet for lunch, December 18, at Applebee’s Restaurant, on Fourth Street. I waited in the parking lot, keeping watch for her old Mercury Grand Prix. Just at noon she pulled into a parking place, and emerged with a smile on her face. The significance of the occasion was apparent, yet we didn’t mention it directly. As we ate, and laughed, we knew that the demon of December had been exorcized.
Christmas came and went with all its joy, and all its pain, and Logan survived. She learned that coping is not the absence of tears, for only forgetting could accomplish that. And Mary was too precious to forget.
© 2012, John C. Fitts, III. All Rights Reserved.
We began bereavement counseling began at the end of January. Soft-spoken and shy, Logan apologized for being a burden, but received me with eagerness. From the beginning tears were near the surface as we talked about Mary. The youngest of three children, Mary and Logan were especially close. She was attending a school for physical therapy in Miami, within a year of graduation. They both looked forward to her trips home for long weekends or holidays. Logan presented initially as a very typical grief stricken mother. Then she revealed complications of her grief that would be a more formidable challenge than usual.
In addition to Mary’s death two days before Christmas, Logan disclosed that twelve years earlier, her husband, an Episcopalian priest, died on Christmas day. Down the hall from him, in another unit, her mother lay ill, dying just two weeks before Christmas. The joyful holiday face of Christmas masked a terrifying demon. The month of December waited at the end of the year like a dozing dragon, ready to devour all joy and hope if aroused. Our goal became simply to survive.
Logan was born in Winston Salem, North Carolina, the heart of “tobacco country.” Her mother was a part of the high society, a friend of Libby Holman, a “torch singer” in the 1920’s famous for her throaty voice. Logan told me the story of how her mother had been at the party at Libby’s home the evening Smith Reynolds, her husband and heir to the R. J. Reynolds tobacco empire, was found shot to death. Later, following a scandalous trial, Ms. Holman was acquitted of murder and his death was ruled a suicide. Though Logan was a small child at the time, she remembered the evening her mother went to the party. Logan laughed as she thought of how she eventually married a young priest named “Smokey,” and spent their ministry years in rural New England. She mused, “His family must have thought he was crazy to bring someone like me into his family.”
The unlikely pair created a wonderful life, complete with the struggles of small church life. They raised three children who were healthy, happy, and productive. Eventually Smokey moved the family to St. Petersburg where he ended his career at the Cathedral Church of St. Peter. Logan now worked in the office near the room where we talked.
Between the educational building, with offices, and the sanctuary, was a small garden, both for aesthetics, and also used for spreading of ashes of those members who had passed away, including both Smokey and Mary. In the narthex leading to the place of worship was a wall dedicated to those in the garden, with names engraved on small brass plates. Smokey’s name was there, and in the month of March, Mary’s name would take its place. Logan told me about the wall, admitting that she had always found it sad, but now dreaded it even more. She wondered if she would ever be able to face it. When March arrived and the name was in place I asked if she would like me to accompany her to the wall so that she could look at it with my support. At first she hesitated, but then, at the end of the session, agreed to go. We entered the building and stood facing the names of her two loved ones. I put my arm around her shoulder and squeezed slightly, as the tears rolled down her cheeks. From then on, at the end of each visit, we would walk to the wall for silent meditation.
After several weeks Logan said that her grief had seemed to switch tactics. She was getting a handle on the emotional upheaval that had plagued her. She still had times of sadness, but knew how to avoid major sources of pain. For instance, though driving straight down Fourth Street was the most direct route from her home to her office at the church, she had to pass Applebee’s Restaurant, Mary’s favorite place to eat. She couldn’t bear to see it, so she drove down Ninth Street, not too far out of the way. It seemed easier than to face the memories.
Logan said it was now the little, unexpected things that bothered her, made her sad. For instance, anytime she saw ducks it reminded her of the way Mary used to feed the ducks at school. Any talk about the circus was painful because Mary used to work in a circus. White gloves, the smell of fabric softener, angels decorating department stores, anything about the state of Maine, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team, the cat’s old leash and collar, and a list of other normally innocuous things. With football season and “Buc-mania” on the horizon, and the early Christmas decorations with the proliferation of angels, there would be no escaping. I encouraged her to tell me about those things and why they made her sad. In some way, talking about them seemed to take away some of their power.
The fall season brought its share of monsters to face. Halloween had always been a favorite of Mary’s, with its costumes and collection of sugary treats. We would then be heading in to the season that would culminate in the dreaded month of December. For any bereaved person the month of November, with Thanksgiving, is difficult. For Logan, it threatened to be unbearable. But Logan was making progress. A plan began to form in my mind but I did not share it with Logan lest she withdraw and retard what had been accomplished so far. She was bravely confronting her fears, allowing me to guide her on this journey.
A common strategy to help the grieving through difficult times is adequate preparation. We discussed her plans for Thanksgiving. What had she done in the past? What were the plans this year? Should she avoid any reminder of holidays past, or would the absence of familiarity be worse? Would traditions bring comfort or pain? There was no easy way to get thought this, but she was determined to survive.
It had been almost a year since Mary died. Time, along with the relentless confronting of her grief, both healed and strengthened Logan. Just after Thanksgiving I suggested a bold and aggressive move. At first it seemed daunting, but she agreed. Along with a friend of hers, we made plans to meet for lunch, December 18, at Applebee’s Restaurant, on Fourth Street. I waited in the parking lot, keeping watch for her old Mercury Grand Prix. Just at noon she pulled into a parking place, and emerged with a smile on her face. The significance of the occasion was apparent, yet we didn’t mention it directly. As we ate, and laughed, we knew that the demon of December had been exorcized.
Christmas came and went with all its joy, and all its pain, and Logan survived. She learned that coping is not the absence of tears, for only forgetting could accomplish that. And Mary was too precious to forget.
© 2012, John C. Fitts, III. All Rights Reserved.
