The First Christmas Without Jacob

The first year Jacob was not here for Christmas, we weren't sure what to do. Jacob had already said he wanted to go to Michigan where every other year my husband's family gathers. We weren't sure if Jacob would want to go to Michigan that year since he was a freshman at college and it was a time when he could be home with his friends, but he had made it very clear just a couple weeks before he died that he wanted to be with family and celebrate our "traditional" Christmas. Maybe it was for that reason we decided to stick with tradition, but it turned out to be the wrong thing to do, at least for my husband and me. Don't get me wrong, my husband's family tried to be sensitive, and the kids were especially great with the younger girl cousins coming up with a holiday cheer that included Jacob's name. The problem was that none of them had a clue how painful going through Christmas without Jacob was. How could they?

Christmas Eve was the absolute worst. I had no memory of this from past Christmas celebrations, but my husband said it was the way we had always done the gift exchange with his family--they started with the youngest of the kids and worked up to the oldest. The gaping hole that existed for my husband, my daughter and me when we skipped from the cousin who was a year younger than Jacob to the cousin who was a year older was enough to kill us. I was screaming inside, "How can you just ignore Jacob like that!!!!" Not even a mention of his name. I wanted to leave the room and vomit. Even though Grandpa had read a lovely poem before the gift opening started and then discussed briefly Jacob's absence, I cannot tell you how excruciating it was to go through that process and simply ignore Jacob's rightful place in the order of cousins. As I said, I didn't remember us doing that, so the process began to unfold before I even realized what was happening. In hindsight, I wish I had either gotten up and walked out or had asked them to PLEASE draw names or something other than by age. If we had drawn names, there never would have been the obvious moment when Jacob's turn would have arrived. The other possibility would have been to ask them to take the time that would have been Jacob's turn to allow the cousins to all share one memory of Jacob they will always cherish.

There was also the horrible miscommunication between my husband and me about attending the Christmas Eve church service. I thought we had agreed to remain behind when everyone else went to the church service in order to have some quiet family time away from all the craziness of 30+ family members gathered in one place. Before I knew it, people were rushing out the door to go to church. My daughter had already gone out and my husband had his jacket on. My head was spinning. I was completely confused and felt so uncomfortable speaking up in front of my husband's family, but the LAST thing I wanted to do was go to an unfamiliar church and sing Christmas songs. Just being in church was hard enough, but to sing songs when it was exactly three months to the hour since my son's death was more than I could fathom.

When we arrived at the church, I was relieved to see a pew open near the very back. I needed to know I could slip out without disturbing everyone else if it all got too hard, which was very likely. Just as I was about to slide into the pew, my husband took hold of my hand and lead me to the third or fourth pew from the front. I thought he had lost his mind. What was he doing? Why was he having us sit up front? The people on the ends didn't want to move in, so we had to crawl over people and sit in the middle. I literally thought I had died and gone to Hell. Even though the choir members had no idea who I was, because they were facing the congregation, it felt like every one of them had their eyes right on me.

During the service, it felt like I was losing my mind. I wanted to scream and cry out, "Where is Jacob? Why can't Jacob be here? How can you all be smiling?" My anger was raging inside of me, my pain was raging inside of me, and I had no way to release any of it. As we sang Silent Night by candlelight, I felt the freedom to cry, but it was just tears rolling down my cheeks, not the wailing that I needed to do at that moment.

When the service was finally over and we made our way out, I turned to my husband and asked, "How could you do that to me?" He was dumbfounded. He thought he was helping by separating me from the rest of the family and just having the two of us together. However, in that setting the family became the safety net amongst strangers. They were my buffer zone, so to speak. That wasn't how my husband saw it at all. He was trying to help and it completely backfired. From that moment on he didn't speak to me or even look at me. That's how it went the rest of our time with his family. Not one word was exchanged between us on Christmas Day. I would look at my husband, but he would never look in my direction or acknowledge me. If Christmas Eve was Hell, I don't even have a word to describe Christmas Day, 2006. Or the next day as we drove several hours in the car.

That's when I knew life was never going to be the same. For our family, Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year. We had enjoyed 18 glorious Christmas celebrations with Jacob and 16 with our daughter, but those days were gone, part of a sweet past that we could never have back again. At that point, I honestly wanted to give up and die. If not for my daughter, I think I would have.