Our first Christmas without Her

The Muirhead tradition is one that continues from the days of our childhood. We always celebrated and opened our gifts on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas morning. I'm not sure why, but I loved it that way. Maybe it had to do with all the chores that a cattle rancher and dairyman has to do every morning, starting at 4 or 5 in the morning with milking, feeding calves, chickens, etc. After a break for breakfast, it was time to harness the workhorses to the big sled on runners and load it with hay to carry to the feed yards for the cattle. With snow that accumulated to depths of four, five, or more feet in the winter, that could take until past noon.

After we moved from the Yampa Valley and even after Mom and Dad quit ranching, and their kids had moved away and formed families of their own, the tradition of meeting at our parents' house on the day before Christmas continued. When Mom died, 5 years after Dad passed away, our sister Sharon bought their house and continues to live there so that it is still the place for everyone to come the day before Christmas for a potluck dinner, gift exchange, and camaraderie. Kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids all crowd into the old ranch house* where memories of Mom and Dad are strong. (*When Dad was superintendent of a ditch company, he and Mom bought the house that was part of the old Benson homestead north of Lake Loveland. It's now pretty much in the middle of town as the city has grown up around it.)

As with many Christmases over the years, I have not been part of that nostalgic setting because of the distance I live from my Colorado roots, the threat of bad roads and weather, and the draw of my own offspring to stay here in Montana. And it was a lovely Christmas Day here—relaxed, peaceful, and fun, as I basked in the presence of 3 of my children, their spouses and families that included 6 of my 8 grandchildren and 2 of my 3 great-grandchildren.

Still, I missed Joan very much. Just knowing she wouldn't be with the family for Christmas Eve-day, for the first time—ever—as far as I know, was sad. Ever since she passed away in September, it's been hard to realize that she is not just a phone call away, for we used to talk on the phone daily. So, the day before Christmas, I called my niece to commiserate. When I reached her, she was at Sharon's house. For her it was weird and sad to get there and not see her mom, for Joan was usually the first to arrive.

Oh how we miss her! She will never be forgotten, just as Mom and Dad still live in our memory as vivid as the day we last saw them.

Holidays—times for joy and celebration—are also a time of sorrow as we long for those who have gone to rest. They are a time for remembering, too, keeping the influence of our departed loved ones ever with us. And in that, I take comfort.

Joan, a young mother

Four Generations: Grandma Muirhead, Joan (holding Gary), Dad, and Debbie in front

Joan, Gary, Janet and Debbie (in front)

These pictures were taken the summer I was fifteen— the summer I lived in Craig, Colorado, with my sister, Joan and her husband, John. I was hired to look after their two children, whom I adored, while both Joan and John went to work each day. And, because I was there with the kids, they occasionally went out in the evening for a date night

On one such night, after my niece and nephew were tucked into bed and sound asleep, I made sure all the doors were locked before going to sleep myself. When Joan and Johnny came home, they realized they'd forgotten their house key. They pounded on the door, but we all slept through it. They came to window next to the bed where I slept and tapped on it, yelling my name. I slept through it. They finally managed to break into their house.  Shortly after they got inside, Gary began to cry. I awakened immediately, jumped out of bed, and was rushing to his crib when I saw Joan, heading the same way. I guess my brain was tuned for certain sounds—the babies—not the adults.

How honored I was that Joan, such a dedicated, loving, caring young mother would entrust her children to my care—even after that episode. At that young age, I certainly didn't know all that I needed to know in order to be the perfect nanny. I'd had no formal instruction, just the experience of living with younger twin sisters and a little brother—and holding them every chance I got when they were babies. Years of experience and college classes in child development have taught me a lot that I wish I had known when my children were growing up. But I can't remember making any big mistakes (though probably a lot of little ones and maybe some close calls) while watching Debbie and Gary.

I took them to playgrounds, walks around the neighborhood, and 'picnics' at the sandstone rock formations at the end of a street they lived on. I had a little camera and took a lot of pictures. Was I risking injury when I sat Gary on the edge of a merry-go-round and stood back to take his picture? I'm glad he didn't fall off. Did I push them too high on the swings to be perfectly safe? I don't know, but there were no serious accidents. They were fed and rocked and read to and happy, so I guess love was enough, and they survived the summer of the teenage nanny.

Both Deb and Gary have grown to be responsible, successful, caring, compassionate adults. Through the years, though separated by many miles, Joan and I talked a lot. Anecdotes about our children, of course, were frequent topics. There's no doubt about her love, concern, and admiration for her kids. Love carried all of us through their growing-up years of joy, sorrow, worry and delight, weddings, babies, achievements, illnesses, and accidents.  The bond of love deepened even further during the years and months of Joan's cancer as we all got together more frequently.

Joan was always a wonderful mom, and the best big sister. We miss her.

A letter to Joan sent in October 2012

October 8, 2012

To my dearest sister, Joan,

The letter you sent will be a treasure to me forever. Now I’m writing one to you in answer to a question you asked me on the phone.

You asked, “Are you okay?” (Always thinking of the other person, just one of the many reasons I love you so much.)

I answered that I was fine and believed I was telling the truth. But maybe it wasn’t a complete answer. I tried to explain, but since I am not that in touch with my feelings, I didn’t do a great job.

I think we were talking about your cancer. Am I okay with that? Absolutely not!! I consider it an enemy with no right whatsoever to invade your body. And I refuse to yield to it — as if that were a choice I have. I realize it’s not, but I can and do stubbornly refuse to accept that the cancer will win.

But there is something else deep inside me that I choose to ignore. (like I said in the hospital, “I’m hanging on to my denial.”) That something is fear. Fear, not so much that you will die, but that I won’t have done all the fun things, said all the important things, asked the right questions—the ones I’ll think of later when it’s too late to ask them—fear that I won’t have spent the most important and precious moments with you, intimately sharing life, love, laughter—and maybe even some honest grief with you before you die.

Work and other distractions pile up and beneath it all is the anxious feeling that time is not waiting for me to get around to doing what I want to do, which is to be with you and share with you the things we love: Books, writing, words, the outdoors, nature, seeing new parts of the world and the people we want to meet, and doing it together. Sharing thoughts, ideas, and ideals with you. Gleaning more of your wisdom.

Am I okay? I’ll be far more okay when the cancer is gone. …

We will die. We won’t always have a chance to enjoy the things we love to share, which may be no more than each other’s presence. And when one of us dies, we’ll find a way to be okay with that, too. Don’t worry about me. I am okay with my love and longing to be with you. This is how love works, and I love you and will love you forever. I’ll never have any regrets about that.

With Love Always

Janet

Almost a year after receiving that letter from me, my sister died—in spite of my hard-held denial. Wanting so badly to beat it and see her well and robust again just wasn’t enough to save her. And so, in truth, I do have regrets. I regret time I didn’t spend with her. I regret that we didn’t get to do more of the fun things we both enjoy. I regret that I didn’t say enough, ask enough, or honestly share my true feelings and thus allow her to do the same. Oh, we talked a lot, but one never thinks to ask the important questions, to convey the critical sentiments. Stubborn denial was a hindrance to my ability to do that.

But there is so much more that I am thankful for. I’m thankful for all the time we did spend together. I’m thankful for the many interests we shared, and for all the conversations we had, both by phone and in person. I am thankful for all the years she loved me and guided me with her example. I am thankful that she wrapped me into the folds of family love, bringing me closer to all of my Colorado family.

Celebrating Joan's 78th birthday, November 2012 

I am thankful that she no longer suffers the horrible pain and illness and sorrow that she endured for so many years since the day the doctors pronounced, “You have lung cancer.”

I have no regrets that I loved her so much that I miss her each day and moment. That is how love works. I will love her forever with no regrets about that.

To answer the age-old question, Is it better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Of course it is. For what she gave me will never be lost although she is gone from my sight.