As I write the first draft of this column, it is December 19, 2023—the 20th anniversary of the death of my daughter at age 18 1/2. (Danielle was big on those 1/2 years. No party, no cake, but we celebrated it in some fashion.) And December 20 would be Danielle’s half birthday.
Danielle loved Christmas: the lights, the decorations, the music; shopping, baking cookies, wrapping gifts. She loved the nativity and played with it regularly during the season. When she learned that the wise men weren’t at the manger scene when Baby Jesus was born and, instead, traveled miles and miles and reached the Christ child later, she established the tradition of moving those three figurines every day closer and closer to the creche. Finally, on the Feast of the Epiphany, they arrived with gifts to celebrate the birth. As a young teenager, Danielle played the role of Mary in the living nativity, a highlight of her religious education experience.
I get great joy from telling stories of Danielle and hearing others share their memories of her. While this time of year is especially difficult, there are others times that stir up the grief. Her absence at the Thanksgiving table is still felt. Her favorite was Aunt Brenda’s “Dirt Dessert.” I celebrate her birthday, June 20, with her favorite childhood meal: hotdogs, macaroni and cheese (Kraft—don’t try to slip in an off-brand or homemade.), and cottage cheese (She was particular about the brand and the size of the curd and couldn’t be fooled.). Dessert was a Dairy Queen cake—always—her preference, not mine.
I grieve things that will never be. Because Danielle was an only child (except for her exchange-student sisters and brothers: Dubravka, Carlos, Andrea, José, Patti, Erika, and Miguel), I will never be the mother-of-the-bride. I won’t be some little darling’s grandma. I am fortunate to have become a step-mom when I married Jim. I treasure Melanie and Matt and Megan. They own prime property in my heart, but an empty lot will always exist there. And they understand that. They have their own grief, having lost their mom to colon cancer when they were all teenagers. They, too, feel the weight of that loss on certain anniversaries.
I look forward to some grief triggers because they also spark happy memories. Yes, you can feel grief and joy at the same time. Hearing folks talk about their kids’ or grandkids’ accomplishments in sports reminds me of Danielle’s years in swim club. Sitting outside in the baking sun or “parked” on uncomfortable bleachers in a humid indoor pool was a joy (maybe not at the time) as I watched Danielle glide through the water. I will never forget one indoor meet when she was 11 or 12 and chose to swim a special event, a 1-mile race. All ages swam at the same time because so few had registered for that event. She was the youngest and the last one out of the pool. But if you know anything about swim club parents, you know they cheer for each other’s kids. Every parent in those bleachers was on his or her feet cheering with her dad and me as Danielle finished those last few laps. She completed that challenge and was awarded a gold medal for her effort (being the only one in her age group). After she had time to recover, I asked her if she’d ever consider swimming that event again. “No way!” she exclaimed, “Not in a million years.”
Hearing about marching band competitions reminds me of Danielle’s experiences as a Norwell Marching Knight. She gave up her clarinet during the summer to be a part of color guard so she could wave and twirl and toss flags and rifles. She loved it and the friends she made…. Except for the summer of the nasty ankle sprain when she found herself in the percussion pit. She didn’t hate it: she was still a part of the band. Percussion just wasn’t her thing.
Twenty years sometimes seems like a long time, yet some days it feels like yesterday. Some memories of that time are vivid and up close. Others are cloudy and far away. I even have some funny memories from the days of her viewing and her funeral. Yes, funny ones. Ask me sometime about penguin underwear. Right, Mark? And about a Build-a-Bear named Frank. Right, Rhonda and Cathy?
Here’s the Thing: Lots of us are missing someone this holiday season. There are empty chairs around meal tables. And hearts though mending remain broken. Things may trigger grief bursts: songs, scenes in movies, mention of a favorite book, a dessert, and so much more. But grief is “normal, natural, and necessary” (Stephen Ministry Training Manual, 2020). We can be of comfort to each other all year long by speaking names and sharing stories. Forget those empty platitudes. Let memories come live on.
Let’s talk.
annaspalding1956@gmail.com
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — LaNae Abnet, Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Kathy Schwartz, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
