Dead Baby Scrooge

I try not to go out much these days. My holiday-cheer-o-meter is at its all-time low. In fact, it's down to zero. If I go out where people are happy, cheerful and in a celebratory mood, I'm bound to destroy their holiday and suck them in my black hole of grief.

I don't know but I have this strong urge to end my human encounters with "Yes, Happy Holidays to you. And oh, btw, my son died and he's not here to celebrate Christmas with us." That's a mouthful, perhaps I should just say, "My baby is dead." People would most likely find this disturbing and make them feel ill-at-ease. "Gee, thanks for ruining our Christmas," they'd say, as they walk away with pity, horror, disgust co-mingling like eggnog laced with rum, ginger ale and pepper sauce.

Plus, I'm not going to be a pretty sight to behold. Face devoid of that Christmas-sy glow, eyes dark and grim, mouth in a thin line and tightly shut you'd need a pair of pliers to force a smile on it. I feel like I'm walking dead - dead to the cheerfulness around me, dead to the holiday anticipation and excitement, dead to all the people who seemed to have no worries, concerns or loss.

I'm wary of getting into casual conversations with a retail person who will be all smiles and upbeat. I avoid eye contact and put a scowl on my face to ward off potential cheerer-uppers. If they ask me have I found everything okay, I would grunt a 'yes' and resist the urge to change it to, "No, everything's not okay. Can you do something about it? Can you?" But instead I remain detached. Not thinking of a happy place (I've no such thing at the moment), not thinking about the holidays either.

I remember walking in a store a few days ago to browse and I can't help but get teary-eyed. The experience left me acutely aware of who is missing in my life now and how greatly I envied the women who were pushing strollers with their children in that store. While I looked at clothing and shoes for me and my husband, I wanted to scream that all I wanted to buy are clothes and shoes for our son. For our six-month old Kai.

Empty and angry. This is how I feel these days. I want to take a baseball bat and bash all those Baby's 1st Christmas ornaments. I've seen them as early as September, for crying out loud. And I've had enough of them. Christmas songs? I don't want to listen to them but I can't get away from hearing them when I'm out. This holidays and the coming ones, as one BLM blogged, have been tainted. Indeed, how very appropriate.  

[On a side note, I would like to take my bat to a Ka.y Jewelers store and be like Joaquin Phoenix in the movie Signs. "Swing away Merill, swing away." I just want to get back at them for their TV ad about a man waking up early to see his wife who is nursing their baby and says something like, "This is our first Christmas as a family," while giving jewelry to her. And then he says, "I wonder if she'll remember this Christmas" (referring to their baby daughter) to which his wife replies, "I know I WILL." A freakin' knife to my heart, I tell you, the kind with a serrated blade on one side and barbed on the opposite side. Every time it comes on, I had to step out of the room or change channels. If not, I might wreck the TV because of it.]

I know this isn't the time to be selfish and self-centered. It's not just about me, that there's a whole world out there. There's immediate family and friends. There's people in need. This is the time to be self-less, to give, to think of others, to be kind and generous. Well, I've been these things for a good couple of years of my life, but just this once, let me think only of population me.

Because right now, it's the only way I can cope with this most horridly wonderful time of the year.