Christmas Day

I woke up and rubbed Nora’s belly. She thumped her tail. I say, Merry Christmas, Nora. I add, Merry Christmas, Jason. My voice cracks, trying to get it out. I say it out loud, like he’s in the bed next to me. But he’s not. I say it anyways. In hopes, something more than this life here on earth is real and he can feel me talking to him. I walk out, my mom has the stockings filled. She has a gift in his for him. I touch it, my eyes well up with tears. She says that she got him a gift. I say thank you. Choking back the pain. She says I just want the day to be over. I sigh, me too, I say. I feel that way about most days. I just look for them to come to an end. But especially today, Christmas without Jason isn’t a day I want. But it’s here.

We haven’t opened the stockings yet, Megan is already at work. We will wait till this evening when she returns. I think back to last Christmas. We were up early, like we always were. He was like a child, giddy to see what Santa had brought. The photo I have of him, decked out in all his new gifted outfits, it’s stamped 6:06am. Last year was the first time we really and intentionally filled each other’s stockings. I spent a lot of time shopping for his. I enjoyed it. It was special thinking of all the things he enjoyed doing and loved. Each little gift was full of intention. He felt that as he opened it all. I remember him smiling and saying wow you really put a lot of thought into this. I smiled back and said I did, and gave him a big kiss. Like many things, I am glad for the effort I put in, on what would be his last Christmas. Not realizing we were celebrating his last. Though, I mourn thinking about some of the things in that stocking, things that will never have been used or enjoyed by him. The smart wool, protect our winter ski socks, he thought they were so cool, and I spent a lot of time in the store to make sure they were just right. No cushion, thin, medium. They have never have seen a day on the slopes. There is a sadness. He was a man that planned on living. I planned on him living too.

Gifts are just gifts. But I reflect on the symbolism associated with what Jason asked for and received last Christmas. He was a man that planned on living. Oh and want to live did he. He longed for normality, health, the Jason who was active, fit, able to do and go no matter what. He selflessly wanted that not just for himself, but for me. All he wanted was to promise me normality. Last Christmas, was a reflection of that. He wanted things that represented his life as he knew it, before cancer. Because he planned on living. He wanted his life back.

I think about the clothes he bought for himself last Christmas to go on a ski trip that he’ll never ever get to go on, the ski socks I put in his stocking that he didn’t get to use, because he never got another day on the slopes. His ski boots that are in our closet. He’ll never put his feet into again and he never got to take that last run in when he so thought he would make it back to the slopes.

The nice shirts, pants, jackets that are basically brand new from last Christmas. They sit in the closet and should’ve had a lifetime of Jason wear, they barely got eight months.

All the things that we bought and he bought for himself thinking he had more time.

The bright orange Brooks running shoes he asked for last Christmas because he hoped that he would get to back to running, he was excited to be living a healthy lifestyle, with the mindset that his immunotherapy was working and he was going to beat this.

The Cotopaxi long underwear set that he bought for himself, wrapped it up and wrote to: Jason from: Santa. Brand new, it hangs in the closet waiting for somebody to take it out for a beautiful run on skis.

The dress shoes he asked for, with plans of going places and going out again. Living life. This wasn’t the Christmas list of a young man expecting or ready to die. This was someone with hope, dreams, goals, hope to beat cancer, and get back to living.

Last Christmas morning, Jason dressed himself to the nines in all the new gifts he’d been given. He was giddy and excited. He even had a shoe change between the early morning and late morning from running shoes to snazzy dress shoes. He made everyone French toast for breakfast. He found a special recipe he really loved. It had a hint of orange in it. He wanted to give, and to participate. All the physical gifts last year, they mean more than we realize, they meant hope for normality, a life, a future. All things Jason never got. My heart aches for him, and it aches for me, for the life we will never have. I hold him close in my heart today, and everyday, for I will continue to tell his story, our story. He deserved this life, just like the rest of us and it is so wildly unfair that he was taken far too soon.

Jason making french toast, dressed up in all his Christmas Gifts. 2024.