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I kept telling myself that the holidays would be like every day since Carrick died. No worse. No better. Just another sad day marking passage without my boy at my side. All the while I was repeating this litany inside my brain (“no worse, no better”) part of me knew I was lying. The first inkling came in the form of a picture. Every year in early December, my hubby’s work hosts a big shindig at a local country club. We always go because A. I like to get dressed up and B. the eats are fantastic, and C. Did I mention that the eats are fantastic? This year we didn’t really talk about it, and for a long time I think my husband assumed that we were going to blow off that event. Even though dressing up and going to a country club had nothing at all to do with parenting and so therefore should be no harder to endure after the loss of our son; it just seemed irrelevant this year. Then I remembered the eats. “Are we going to go to your big company party this year?” I asked my husband after Thanksgiving. “I don’t know.” He shrugged, apathetically. “What do you think?” “I keep thinking about all the shrimp.” I pondered the iced cocktail shrimp. “And the chicken fingers, stuffed mushrooms....... and the petite fours.” (I REALLY love petite fours). “We can go if you want.” He said. “I just don’t want to make you do anything that would make you unhappy.” I laughed aloud at that notion. Inside I was thinking that I had been pretty much in a constant state of unhappy since August 29 and nothing he said or did was going to affect the new jaded me. “Let’s go.” I decided. “I have something nice to wear.” So we went. The photo at the top of this column is taken just before ye old company party circa 2003. The party is a dressy occasion; and I always looked forward to the professional photo taken in the foyer of the country club. In the years’ past, we had managed to get some great photos of my hubby, all spruced up in suit and tie; and myself in my annual holidaytastic ensembles. This year, as well, I took pains to look my best, and even managed to squeak out a smile for the camera person. I had forgotten about the photo until recently when my hubby pulled out an envelope to scratch himself a note. “What’s that?” I asked, poking at the envelope. “Errrr.....” He trailed off, uncomfortably. Now he had my interest. What was inside that he did not want me to see? A letter from a secret admirer? An escape from Kimra plan? Hidden assets that I was unaware of? I had to know. “ I must know what is inside that envelope!” I pouted. “It’s no secret.” He said, and opened that envelop. Inside was the holiday photo. “I didn’t want you to see it.” He said, bowing his head. Oh. MY. GOSH. I stared at that photo long and hard. The first thing I noticed is that my hubby really looked good. Okay. I am not being honest. I noticed that probably last. THE REAL FIRST thing I noticed was how OLD my face looked. “I look about a zillion, trillion years old!” I gasped. “LOOK AT MY FACE.” “I didn’t want you to see it.” My husband whispered, “Because I knew you would flip out when you saw it.” “I am not ‘flipping out’!” I said, while I flipped out, “But oh my gosh! I look SO OLD!” I took the picture out and placed it next to the photo from last year. Last year I had worn a white, sparkly dress with gold accents. This year I wore a black dress with sheer accents. In both photos, I have a smile. In one, my eyes are clear and hopeful; I was probably thinking about the petite fours. In the second, my eyes are guarded and hurt; I was still probably thinking about the petite fours. Damaged. Life had damaged me. There is nothing I can do about the truth revealed in a photograph except to acknowledge that the holidays ARE more painful than just the average day without Carrick. All the emphasis on fun, family and togetherness points at the empty spot at the table; the presents not under the tree, the booming laugh which filled the house and is here no more. No worse. No better. No truth in those statements. No matter how many times I told myself that the holidays would not be different; the photo held the truth to remain visible for generations to come. And to make matters worse, the petite fours were NOT on the menu that evening.
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