Christmas At The Lake

A journey through grief

It’s a trip that, for all intents and purposes, has been in the planning for over a year.

If not for an unfortunate combination of below freezing temperatures, lake-effect winds and hot water heating pipes on an external, lakeside wall, we would have spent Christmas in our family’s home in Maine last year.

A burst pipe two days before Christmas forced us to change those plans.

So you can imagine the anxiety I have been carrying in the days leading up to this Christmas. With renewed plans to spend the holiday in Maine, I was frantically checking the remote thermostat app to ensure that the temperature in the house hadn’t dropped below 60 degrees… a behavior I used to give Peter shit about as he seemed to be infatuated with checking the app.

Now I am.

Once I was assured the house was maintaining its temperature, and thus assuming all pipes were in tact, our boys and I, and our gigantic dog, Winston, made the trek to Maine last night after the Christmas Eve worship service. And the three hours on the highway gave me a lot of time to think.

This trip back to Maine feels different. I’ve only returned a handful of times since Peter died. And as I consider each of those trips, what I won’t say is that it has gotten easier over time. It hasn’t. And yet, the experience of being here continues to change.

The days following Peter’s death were frantic. There were lots of things to take care of.

The next trip up was nearly as frantic as we were doing all of the “end of the season” things to prepare the house for the changing weather. The subsequent trips since then have been few, far between, and no more than one night. There have been a couple of “up and back” trips along the way… six hours on the road.

I had made one of those short trips just recently as our eldest son and I did an overnight to prepare the house for Christmas. I set up the tree, got it decorated, wrapped presents, and did what I could to get the house ready for our boys to return. For two of them, it has been over a year since they’ve been back. And that trip was only a few months after Peter died.

It’s difficult to describe what I am feeling while sitting in the recliner writing these words. Through the sliding glass doors, I view the lake through the gently falling snow. My mind wandering occasionally to memories of winters past when our family spent the holidays here opening gifts, eating far too many sweet treats, and creating more of the “good memories” this house was purchased to make.

Sadness is definitely present. How could it not be? I’m sitting mere feet away from the place my husband’s body was found. And yet the sadness I feel is not that of deep, excruciating grief. It’s almost as if I am feeling sorry for Peter, sorry that he can’t be here with us as we celebrate the first Christmas back in the house without him present.

I’m sorry he’s not able to see how our boys are growing into exceptional young men.

I’m sorry he’s not able to see the growth I have experienced over the time he’s been gone… more than just the length of my beard.

I’m sorry he’s not able to see how much Winston is enjoying playing in the snow.

I’m sorry he’s not able to see how we have gotten on without him.

Actually… I’m not sorry he’s unable to see that. Because, at times it really sucks to see how well we are doing with him gone. It sucks to have to learn how to get by without him.

It sucks to know that I’m learning to do the things he would do… because I have to. I’d much rather he be here to do them.

Perhaps this is better described if I speak to the physical nature of what I’m experiencing. I ache for Peter. My body misses his. We were so connected, and I am still trying to figure out who I am without him.

There’s a heaviness in my chest and in my gut as I watch our boys open their Christmas gifts knowing it’s the second Christmas I’ve had to do this with them alone. There’s a heaviness that has been anchoring me to this chair for much of the day. That, and the view of the lake we chose to buy a house on… the lake that provided the setting for so many of our shared memories for nearly a decade.

Things are so very different now without him. And I am doing what I can to provide for our boys the best way I know how… as a widower, a surviving spouse… as half of a whole that had been created over nearly twenty-one years.

There’s been a shift within me throughout these various trips to Maine. I’ve gone from being ready to put the house on the market and to walk away from the tragic memories it now holds, to being confident that it is the right thing to do to hold on to it.

There are many more “good memories” to be fashioned here in the years to come. And I know that, despite his physical absence, Peter will be a part of them all.

Merry Christmas, Blub! We still hold a part of you here with us.

I love you! I miss you!

And always will.

[the photo accompanying this piece was created using Chatgpt, merging two images… one of me and one of Peter. The holiday attire was added to Peter. And I think he looks stunning!]