Twas the night before Christmas...

and I was wrapping Christmas presents at 1am, before shaving off my beard. A number of friends have expressed sympathy for how we might be feeling about Christmas without Jen. Surprisingly, I don't find that I miss Jen any more specifically than I have at other times - that is to say, I notice her absence everywhere. The main immediate impact is that there's much more to do. It's not any task in particular, but everything together.

For example, the task of deciding the wisdom of major presents for the boys. Primus has been keen on a next-generation games console (an XBox 360), paying for some of it himself. Obviously that has implications for Secundus as well. After some deliberation, I decided to go ahead with this.  Secundus received a new bicycle - one with gears - as his major present. The main issue was finding enough time to shop without the boys. Presents for my family have usually been my responsbility rather than Jen's, so since we were staying in Melbourne for Christmas, this part of the shopping was familiar.

I also had to find time for other tasks of Christmas, the ones that Jen usually took care of herself. On Secundus's request, we did an advent calendar again this year, reusing the 25 boxes that Jen created last year (each with a reading and two sweets), and finding a part of a book to read as well each night. On Christmas eve I had to wrap all the presents and write labels, which is a new departure for me. I'd also decided to buy my own Christmas presents and put them under the tree, to save the boys the effort this year. Perhaps next year I'll give them a list, and find someone to help them.

One of the traditions that Jen brought from her family was Christmas stockings, with smaller items, which could be unpacked first things on Christmas morning without waking anyone else. This year I've continued that tradition, though perhaps without quite as much flair and passion as Jen. I can see that there is a sorting process I must go through, where each habit or tradition must be re-evaluated without Jen, to see my own degree of commitment and its importance to the boys.

The day before Christmas (lunch at my father's place) and Christmas day (lunch at my mother's place) went remarkably well. Without Jen, it's helpful at times to have a bustle of activity, and then keep other times to reflect on her absence. I have to work on how to incorporate the latter. One book on grief suggested that widows tend to use special occasions as an opportunity to reflect, whereas widowers tend to see them as events to be 'got through'. If you know me at all, you'll realise that I'm not that enamoured of such male/female distinctions. For me there are elements on both.

Not having Jen is like not having one leg. I frequently notice that I am only standing on one leg, and so am continually reminded of her absence. This book on grief ("The Other side of grief") remarked that men more often speak of the loss of their partner as like a loss of part of themselves, perhaps because the man has built an integrated life of work/home in which his wife had a critical role. There's an element of truth in that for me, but there's a deeper reason for us. One consequence of the moving that Jen and I did in our first seven years of marriage, was that we were forced to rely heavily on each other. For example, when we moved to Sweden in 1996, Jen was the only friend I had there (and likewise for her with me). So in fifteen years, our shared life is like a tapestry woven together. With her death, I can't just rip off her part of the tapestry, for in fact all aspects of my everyday existence contain echos of Jen, of joint decisions and compromises that we made.  I am still now unpicking some of the threads.

For the boys, it seemed to be a reasonable Christmas - apart from Jen's glaring absence, most others things continued. For me the big occasions are easiest to anticipate - it's more the unexpected 'thoughts in the middle of the night' .