This year Santa must not have received my wish list, for Paul’s uncle passed away Saturday morning, Christmas Eve.

While it’s always heartwrenching and painful to lose a loved one, it’s ten times worse when it’s during the season of joy and good cheer. Especially when you think about how that death will reflect on the holiday seasons to follow.

We lost my grandma a few days before Christmas in 1996. Yeah, we knew her time was limited, but as with every death, it came as a shock to us. That Christmas we gathered together as per usual, only this time in the house of my Aunt rather than my Grandma’s house. While we tried to be jolly (see how here), things were changed.

And that’s kind of what this year’s Christmas brought. After having stayed up until 2am on Friday (gift slackers that we are) to finish the gifts, we were rudely awakened by our daughter who thinks 6:30 is a good time to start cheering and yelling for Mama. So Paul let me sleep in until 7:30 (good man, he is), as he made the coffee and fed Piper her breakfast (still in that night’s diaper and jammies, but whatever). When I finally dragged myself out of bed, too (upon the insistence of my daughter who came yelling into the bedroom while hitting me with her Yo Gabba Gabba Vans shoe), our day began.

The day went on as any other, a yelling, squealing Piper refusing to nap until the Food Channel was turned on (seriously, it puts her out like a light), us silently showering and preparing for the day ahead. When she woke we finished wrapping the gifts and addressing the labels, and then the phone rang. There was nothing on the line, I assumed it was a butt dial. After saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” and replacing the phone in the charger it rang again. “Hello?”, I said cheerily into the phone. “Amber, can I talk to Paul, please.” was his cousin’s response, sounding shaky and tear-filled. Immediately my body went icy, and with wide eyes I handed the phone to Paul (who had Christmas music playing on the computer, I hissed, “TURN THE MUSIC OFF”), Paul said, “I’m so sorry”, and I knew.

I know the pain of losing your loved ones during Christmas, but I didn’t know the pain of losing your husband, your father during Christmas. I couldn’t imagine the devastation they would feel. Paul promised he’d come, and Piper and I were left to get ready for a party alone on Christmas Eve, Paul was hoping he would meet us there before dinner was served. Luckily my in-laws had also invited my Dad to the party, so our ride was already set.

Christmas Eve passed in a whirl of emotions, joy and sadness, loss and love. Piper had no idea what was going on, and I’m SO thankful that she won’t have memories of a sad day like that. I’m also incredibly sad that she likely won’t remember her Uncle Frank (and as I write that I wonder if we had ever taken any pictures of her with him, and kicking myself madly for not doing it before), a wonderful man- Piper and I are so lucky that we are surrounded by great men.

On Christmas day, we had our small family gift exchange, with each gift being Piper’s favorite- until the next gift came along. It was wonderful. We went to the valley to see my aunt/cousins and to eat tamales (second tamale meal of the weekend), and then we went to see Paul’s aunt.

Oh my, the sadness was palpable. She’d keep a brave face, but then leave every now and then to cry. Piper was the lone child, and when the guests who were there before us left, it was just us- Paul, Piper and I, Paul’s grandma, his cousin and his aunt. We all sat in the living room, all sad but still kind of numb. It felt like something, someone was missing. Even though I wouldn’t have done anything differently, knowing this is how Piper’s Christmas was spent saddened me. Again, I’m just thankful she probably won’t remember this. I’d have to think that any older and she would probably not have been a pleasant child.

The home was (understandably) unprepared for a child. Since they usually had a ton of things for Piper to eat, we didn’t pre-pack her dinner, or toys to bring. She sat in her booster seat on the floor, repeatedly pushing away the items I had on hand to give her for dinner. She refused the cold Shakey’s Hawaiian style pizza, the cold mojo potatoes, the fried chicken. The cheese piece Paul cut off the block of colby was refused as well, and all the wanted to eat was a sugar cookie. Because I wasn’t quite up to deal with an angry child who didn’t want to be there, I relented and let her have more. As she wandered the house aimlessly trying to find something she could play with, a VHS of one of Frank’s favorite movies played on repeat in the background. Finding nothing to do, Piper came and sat in our laps on the loveseat, fingers in her mouth and blanket in hand.

For a regular day, it was boring. Colorless and sad. For Christmas day, it was heartbreaking. It was tinged with an almost infinite sadness, a piece of the puzzle permanently missing from now on. While having a child in a home usually brings life to a place, in this instance it just brought a morose air. Every little laugh that escaped made me feel guilty. Like she should be sad like the rest of us, she should be quiet and observe. Then I felt badly for her, because she didn’t know. She had no idea someone very special was missing, and that someday she’ll know about him, but not really remember him.

The rest of the week has been just as bad. Since we’re all Paul’s aunt has (other than her son), Paul has been tasked with helping her plan every aspect of the funeral, from the readings at the Rosary to the suit he is buried in. While Paul has taken on this job like a champ, it’s been a little harder for me. I’m just angry at the whole situation. There shouldn’t be a funeral, and my husband shouldn’t have to plan it. Aren’t there more “Adult” adults that can do this? This can’t be easy on Paul, you know? I regretfully let him know that I was upset that he had to take this burden on himself, and because I tend to be an emotional speaker, it did not come out how it had sounded in my head. Instead of it being me saying, “I can’t believe this is happening to her, to us” it came out as a “Why is she making you do this? This isn’t your job!” which isn’t what I intended. I just hate the unfairness of this all. Having to spend Christmas hurting, having to plan a funeral for someone because you’re all they have left, having to lose someone so wonderful.

My husband is an amazing man, and he has stepped above and beyond. Tonight is the Rosary, and Paul will be there early to represent the family. Tomorrow is the funeral services, and we’ll all be there as a family. I just hope Piper can manage to tamp down her usual glee, but also be calm and good, because if there’s anything I have learned from being beside my OWN uncle during his passing last year, there is nothing more grotesque at a death/funeral than the joyful cheer of a toddler. However, we must go, we must support (Piper has been requested), and we must heal.

And this year must hurry up and pass already, I can’t take anymore of this pain.