A Merry & Messy Christmas: Finding a Flicker in a Mass of Imperfection

Trigger warning: This piece is raw and deeply emotional. It delves into mental illness, estrangement, and profound emotional pain. Unlike my usual writing, it’s stripped of the comic relief I often rely on—and there is one bad word in there. This is a part of my journey, and it hurts. It’s honest, it’s vulnerable, and simply is what it is. 

I woke up on the couch. Much to my disappointment. Drenched in sweat, mildly nauseous, with a pounding headache—the usual suspects of my “new normal,” courtesy of chemo. 

Two cold, wet noses nudged me into reality. Tucker and Maggie, my ever-faithful four-legged companions, hovered like cheerful little nurses with no credentials but boundless enthusiasm. Their tails wagged furiously, and they panted like a pair of living metronomes. Clearly, my stillness on the couch had been noted in their canine blogs as a delay in their sacred 5:30 a.m. ritual: the Great Backyard Inspection. 

“Okay, okay,” I croaked, waving them off with the authority of a hungover queen addressing her royal subjects. But their joy didn’t waver. Dogs have this miraculous ability to turn even your most bedraggled moments into a reason for celebration. 

I stood quietly, leaning on the doorframe as the two explorers set off into the predawn world. Maggie, my 14-year-old elder stateswoman, moved with the careful deliberation of someone who had earned the right to take her sweet time. Her trusty nose led the way, as if she were piecing together the mysteries of life, one whiff at a time. Tucker, on the other hand, was pure chaos—a kinetic blur of goldendoodle energy, bouncing and leaping like Tigger fresh out of A.A. Milne’s wood. 

I couldn’t help but smile as he launched himself into the air after some invisible foe—possibly a snowflake, possibly his own shadow. It was a performance equal parts graceful and ridiculous, and I adored his boundless enthusiasm. 

The sweetest sight of all, though, was Tucker’s pause from his joyful escapades to tend to Maggie. With the care of a devoted healer, he licked the countless cancer sores scattered across her frail body—an act of pure instinct, pure love. Maggie stood there patiently, her tail giving a slow, steady wag, as if to say, “Thank you, my dear friend.” 

I thought about all the deadly chemicals coursing through my body, the endless parade of tests, needles, and prodding that had become my new routine. It felt cruel, relentless—like a battle fought on a field I hadn’t chosen. Yet here was Maggie, her own body quietly under siege, enduring the same silent enemy with a grace I couldn’t fathom. She didn’t need a cocktail of therapies or a team of white coats; her contentment rested entirely in Tucker’s gentle care. The attentive licks, the watchful eyes, the unspoken bond—they were her medicine. And somehow, they seemed more powerful than anything a pharmacy could ever produce. 

In that moment, I couldn’t decide if I was awed or devastated. Maybe both. Tucker’s spa therapy was uncomplicated, pure, and unburdened by the knowledge of what was coming. He didn’t calculate prognosis or weigh outcomes. He just loved her, fully and without condition, the way dogs do so effortlessly. 

My silent, teary reflection was abruptly broken by the sound of Wes’s voice, soft and steady, pulling me back to the room. “Merry Christmas, Lovey,” he said, his words landing gently but with the force of a thunderclap. 

Merry Christmas… 

Two simple, beautiful words. Words that should evoke joy, tenderness, and the warm embrace of a holiday wrapped in lights and love. Instead, they unraveled me. Like a dam bursting under the weight of too much water, emotion flooded forth—grief, loss, sorrow, a tidal wave of painful introspection. Expectation collided violently with reality, spinning me into an eddy from which I couldn’t escape. 

Merry Christmas? How? Why? I had completely forgotten. 

I was hollowed by the very sentiment that should have been a sweet balm. Instead of vitality and wonder, it felt like my soul had been eviscerated, leaving behind a raw, hopeless puddle of grief. I should feel happiness, I thought. I should lean into the magic of the season, the sacredness of the day. But the gap between what I should feel and what I did feel yawned wide, leaving me marooned in an emotional wasteland. 

I should have known it was coming. The days leading up to this moment were fraught with distress signals, little cracks in the armor of the season that hinted at the emotional landslide lurking, waiting to bury me. The loudest signal came from my daughter’s Facebook post—a beautiful photograph of her boyfriend’s family—everyone decked out in coordinating Buffalo Bills gear, glowing with happiness and warmth, the kind of photo that screams, “This is what family should look like!” 

They looked so close. So… intertwined. She had the prettiest smile, radiant and effortless. They all did, like a living Christmas tree—tinsel, bulbs, lights, and all. It was crushing. The girl in that photo, my daughter slips in and out of my life like a comet streaking through the night sky—rare, dazzling, and gone before I can even make a wish. Even now, with my sickness and an uncertain prognosis, I see shooting stars more often than I see her. 

Then there’s my middle son, just wrapping up his five-year tour in the Marines. He’s about to move 800 miles away, cementing a permanent distance between us. He’s burned through months of vacation time, not once choosing to come home. My heart aches to see him, to wrap my arms around him, to anchor him here for even a moment. We talk often, and I know he loves me in his own way, but home seems to offer him… nothing. 

And my oldest—my beautiful, complicated firstborn. Our relationship is a minefield, treacherous and unpredictable, scattered with the remnants of a war neither of us asked to fight. Years of mental illness, institutionalization, and a broken behavioral health system have left scars on both of us. Guilt bombs from this past, the weight of protection orders, the tangled mess of love and pain—it’s all there, decorating our relationship with some twisted, nightmarish version of holiday garland. 

So there it is—my Merry Christmas portrait, in all its dysfunctional glory. This mess is the reality I live and the tangled masterpiece I carry with me. 

My heart is heavy, my soul battered, but I’m standing. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what Christmas is about—embracing chaos, leaning into imperfections, and finding light in the places you least expect.