My First Thanksgiving Without Him
I’m crying in public, again.
It’s 9pm on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and I’m on a plane that is finally airborne somewhere over California after a full three-hour delay, two of which we spent sitting on the tarmac growing queasy from fumes and recycled air.
I stare at the sad grey bars of the wireless logo on my computer screen; this lack of internet connection cuts straight through my fragile composure leaving me in a puddle of tears. Spoiler alert: this isn’t about the fails of technology at 30,000 feet. Being unable to escape into in-flight entertainment means I’m left alone with my thoughts. A horrifying scenario when your thoughts are mired in grief.
*******************************************************************
Looking back, it was a relatively stress-free (at least, for my family) holiday spent in the unseasonably warm California sunshine. I usually prefer binging on stuffing and cranberry sauce beneath layers of a scarf and sweater combo, but this year I felt thankful to flit around my aunt’s house in a summer dress and bare feet. Winter had been creeping in and lowering the temperatures back in Chicago and I felt like I’d landed on another planet after arriving to the scene of Palm Trees and short shorts at LAX. Normally, my pale skin would make me feel like a Midwestern vampire in this land of eternal sunshine. This year, though, I stuck out even more among the perky plastic and tan bodies of LA: it was my first Thanksgiving after my dad passed away.
Being the product of divorce, my mom’s family trips to LA haven’t included my dad in over twenty years so I hadn’t mentally prepared for how odd it would feel to “celebrate” while grieving. Leading up to the trip I hadn’t let myself think about how exactly 365 days ago on the opposite side of the country in the brisk streets of Washington DC I spent my last days in person with my dad. This Thanksgiving would take me three time zones and another lifetime away from that memory and I suppressed the urge to reminisce.
Between traveling for work and keeping up the same routine of trading off holidays between my mom and dad, I convinced myself that these few days wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, no worse than grieving my dad on a daily basis. Couldn’t I distract myself with Black Friday bridesmaid dress shopping and table-side guacamole on Rodeo Drive? Turns out, I could. For a few days, at least.
It all came crashing down in the middle of lunch at Ocean House, a retirement home across the street from Venice Beach. We brought my grandmother from her community over to see her 99-year-old sister because, to put it mildly, my grandma wasn’t precious about needing to be near family when it came time to seek more care — she actually refused to live in the same facility as her last living sister. Turns out, her instincts were good because my great aunt was facing eviction for verbally harassing the staff. Honestly, that day’s gathering had more wrinkles than most of the octogenarain residents of Ocean House.
Somewhere between my great aunt insisting we all order soup while sitting in the overheated sunroom and asking if we were talking about “that asshole, the president,” I felt the weight of grief land on my heart with an unceremonious thud.
It had me back in its gnawing clutches.
*******************************************************************
On Thanksgiving Day, my sister and I snuck away to my aunt and uncle’s room where the cats were sequestered. In a painfully new ritual, my sister dialed our grandmother’s phone number instead of our dad’s cell so we could say hello to our paternal family. On speakerphone, we all lapped up breadcrumbs of the minutiae of the day: food, weather, travel logistics. Anything but the elephant in both of our rooms.
No one mentioned my dad in that conversation. I personally choked back a comment about how they would have a lot more leftovers since he wasn’t there to eat more than his share of turkey and pie. Part of what held me back was the nature of a speakerphone. It’s hard to communicate a lighthearted joke over a conference call at work much less to your dead father’s relatives spending the holiday without him for the first time, too. We hung up with the bitter taste of longing for him in all of our mouths. My sister and I proceeded to cry together for just a while longer. The cats purred, happy to have company.
*******************************************************************
I tilt my head back against the flimsy airline seat and wipe my tears with the back of my hand. Through my porthole of a window I can see the nighttime sky where the blinking lights of the wing illuminate pieces of the dark horizon. Even as I sit here paralyzed in mourning I’m being hurtled through the air. Pushed forward while all I want to do is go back. I close my eyes and let more tears fall.
