I’ll have a blue Christmas without you
I’ll be so blue just thinking about you
Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree
Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me

Before Leah’s death, I could only vaguely understand why a large faction of people who are culturally inclined to celebrate Christmas would dread the holiday season each December. At least in North America, the consumer spectacle that is Christmas is largely pitched as a time of family togetherness and wondrous childhood nostalgia. It thus stands to reason why those who are grieving will feel that each incessant decree to be merry and bright rips one more suture from their loss wound. For bereaved parents in particular, few things magnify their child’s absence more than the taunting images of happy, intact families that inundate television commercials and social media feeds as soon as the holiday season kicks off.

Memories of Christmas past

Needless to say, the holiday season that awaits me could not be more different from what I had envisioned and hoped for. My usual custom is to decorate our Christmas tree on the first Sunday of December, and if Leah was here, today would be filled with the gentle croons of carols playing, the smells of festive cookies baking, and countless moments of joy and laughter. I don’t think I can overstate how excited I was to spend this Christmas as part of a whole, completed family with my husband and daughter. Toward the end of my pregnancy in particular, I had frequently envisioned what my bumbling five-month-old girl would be like at this time, charming those around her with her coos and smiles while clumsily grasping at anything within reach.

And when those blue snowflakes start falling
That’s when those blue memories start calling
You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white
But I’ll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas

However, rather than preparing the trimmings for my daughter’s first Christmas, this weekend I am grieving for all the Christmases that she will never get to experience. Instead of coaxing Leah to smile for a holiday photo and searching high-and-low for her first Christmas gifts, I have been bracing myself for what will likely be the most dreary December of my life. Rather than delve into my collection of beloved childhood movies and prepare cards to mail out to family and friends, I have been doing everything I can to pretend like Christmas is not happening at all—and believe me, this is no easy feat. As soon as December 1st made its dreaded presence known, suddenly there were no safe spaces in which I could retreat from the blood-thirsty Christmas behemoth. It seems that every grocery store, shopping center, and office lobby has become hostile territory with their festive lights, shiny tinsel, and unrelenting demands for holiday cheer.

I suppose the most daunting aspect of mapping out my personal holiday survival guide is the realization that Christmas will never again be an occasion that I can anticipate with pure feelings of joy. While my heartache may become less raw over time, Leah’s absence will surely be felt with every first snowfall and family gathering that future Decembers bring. And while I still hope that my Christmas mornings will eventually be filled with the pitter patter of tiny feet, there will always be an empty space under my tree where gifts for my firstborn daughter should sit, as well as a deafening silence where a dark-haired, green-eyed girl should be crawling into my bed, excitedly proclaiming: “Wake up, Mama! It’s Christmas!”

You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white
But I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas