Christmas Eve

Los Angeles, California

When my dad died suddenly, sixteen years ago, my friend Connie did a few things that I have never forgotten. She sent me a card. And a plant. And she sent a card to my mom. I know that she had met my mom, but she didn't know her very well. Then she came to my dad's memorial service. I never forgot it, because she was the only friend who did all that. Next closest may have hit two of the points, but only she reached out in those four ways.

It's Christmas Eve, and I am watching Meet Me in St. Louis. I'm alone, but not feeling forgotten. It's the holidays, for the love of heaven, and everyone is running in all directions. Except me. Still, even with all the running, Connie, not surprisingly, is among the circle of friends reaching out to me.

I want to see Into the Woods when it opens tomorrow, but I may have to wait. I have written before about Sondheim, and about the song from ITW that has always spoken to me. It is No One is Alone. The lyric: You move just a finger; Say the slightest word; Something's bound to linger; Be heard. Sondheim explained that it was about not feeling alone. You are not alone. But it was also about consequences; about the ripple effect that the things you do and say have on those around you.

Many things stand out for me this Christmas: that my dentist showed up unannounced at my house with a plate of baked goods and a wrapped Christmas present; that my therapist called me honey, which she has never done since the first time I walked into her office over twenty-five years ago (no, I haven't been in therapy that long. I've just returned to it...); that Carole has texted or called every single day; that Connie, Debra and Karen are each a close second; that Curt H sent me the best text ever, and Russell sent me the best email; that my best friend, Lydia, held me that first day while I cried; that Joel has been my rock; that Todd & Christopher are trying harder. That this is so hard on all of them.

The most empathic ask me what I need; what they can do. I don't need people telling me they are thinking of me, as it goes without saying, I hope. Plus, what do you do with that? Texting is problematic, in that it only takes a moment to text, so you expect people to take that time. On the other hand, it can feel perfunctory, and that can sometimes not feel good. I don't need suggestions, I am a fairly intelligent adult with a brain that is working on overdrive. The truth is, I need ears. I need shoulders. I need a little steady unwavering support. And that's way more than any one person should have to provide. It takes a village.

When Sandra had her second round of chemo, I dropped the ball. I was so on top of the first round. I sent her weekly care packages: fuzzy socks; scented lotions; books on tape; cds; cards and anything that I hoped might make her smile. By the second round I was deep into caring for my mom and adjusting to this major change in my life. Later I said to her: I'm afraid I didn't do as much for you this time. I was just trying to assuage my guilt. That's ok, she said. But it wasn't. You can't go back, and, while the life lesson was valuable, I regret that I didn't duplicate all I did during her first round. But really, at any time in our lives, we can only do what we can do. Life is crazy busy -- family, holidays, technology, stuff. It's hard to carve out any extras. I get it.

So, Christmas Eve with Judy Garland singing my favorite Christmas song, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, with the lyric that continues to provide a slim, optimistic glimmer of hope:

Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.