Bill Webb

Growing Up All Over Again
by Bill Webb
IPS Features

A Christmas Carol

Historically, December hasn't been an especially good month for me. I think it's sort of like the old superstition of bad luck coming in threes: we don't think much about one instance, but two in a short time get our attention, and if we look for a third we tend to find it. I found four.

December blues started when I was eight, with my father's death three days before Christmas and his funeral on Christmas Eve. That sort of put me off of Christmas celebrations for the next 50 years or thereabouts. It took me a long time to figure out why a certain kind of cold, red winter sunset was so depressing.

Then in September of 1989 I began treatment for my alcoholism. Limited time and my resistance to bringing up all that "old stuff" precluded very much grief work. We who were in treatment together became extremely close, and about two months after we were all back out on the street one of our more beloved members was hit and killed by a drunk driver while riding her bike. That was on December 15th.

On December 17th, the day of Cathy's funeral, my father-in-law Sam died. Christmas of '89 was thus an echo -- early in my sobriety -- of the December trauma of yesteryear. Joy was notably subdued in the Zen household (actually, at that time, it was a motel room), and I became even more curmudgeonly about the Winter Holidays in general. What, after all, had they ever done for me? Since I suffer from chronic low grade depression to begin with, I needed the right combination of medication and listener to work my way through my mid-Winter depression -- along with a lot of help from a friend who spoke eloquently, although not in words.

Over the succeeding fourteen years I learned quite a bit about myself, and about how I got to be me. I also learned a lot about grief, and how it lingers and messes with our heads until we allow ourselves to feel it and move through and beyond it. I learned how emotional trauma can (and almost always does) trap us at whatever stage of emotional development we were in when the trauma occurred, stuck there until the ghosts are exorcized. In short, I began to discover some of the reasons why I behaved, under pressure, rather like an eight-year-old. I made some progress, too, in overcoming my dislike of the Christmas Experience -- began actually to enjoy the holidays for the joyful occasions that they ought to be for everyone.

Then, four years ago, two weeks before Christmas, Mr. Slim died. Slim was a skinny black stray kitten who climbed onto my lap and into our hearts back in the depths of our alcoholism. (My wife is in recovery too; we got sober together.) He would have been 20 years old that January, and for a good part of those two decades he was one of only three or four living creatures that I thought really loved me, and whom I, in turn, could allow myself to love back.

My wife, all the neighbors and I were devastated. Mr. Slim had been the mayor of the 4th floor, stalking the walkway in front of the apartments, (outside the railing, to everyone's horror), visiting his constituents and their goodie jars every day, and repelling all boarders. He ate so well that for a while he actually weighed slightly over ten pounds, although he was himself convinced that he was a thirty-ponder at least.

When he began to fail, we did what we could. He had a couple of extended stays at the pet hospital, visited frequently by us and the neighbors, and so ingratiated himself with the staff that a couple of them got teary-eyed when they learned he'd passed on. We knew he was dying. Wanting him to be as happy as possible, we told the vet to support him physically to the extent that he could, so that we could take him home.

The plan was to take him back to the vet when he seemed to be suffering, but not long thereafter, late one night, he put his paw out as he always did when he wanted my attention. I took it and held it, and he stopped breathing.

That Christmas was different, though. It would have been an insult to my old friend to celebrate his life by being miserable. Oh, I was plenty miserable, but I wouldn't allow myself to stay in it. I'm sure the meds helped, but even more it was the memory of that tough little cat, and how he relished every minute -- especially if he could spend it with me. I learned a lot about living from Mr. Slim, even after he was gone, and I enjoyed and appreciated that Christmas and the ones following more than any before. And this one will be the same.

So...tall grass and lots of bugs to chase, Old Hairball. This is for you, and for all those who have lost loved ones at holiday time, and for me. It's for what you taught me about living each day, and character, and loyalty, and dealing with grief, and especially about unconditional love.

Some people say that animals lack the capacity to love.

I pity them.