Betsy Guerra describes Christmas Day 2013, four months after her daughter FOFI died. She pushed through the morning with her surviving children, finding joy in faith and celebration, but grief crashed back during evening Mass when the numbness wore off.
After the Thanksgiving fiasco, I was determined to enjoy my children's first Christmas without the physical presence of their middle sister. I was committed to honoring my living daughter and son, along with the little peanut that had danced her way into my womb. It was going to be a beautiful day. After all, the reason for the season was the birth of baby Jesus. I wanted him to be reborn in my broken heart and hopefully mend it. On December 25, 2013, exactly four months after FOFI's death, I snuck out of my room quietly to get everything ready for Chichi and Gordi. I wanted them to experience the joy of going through their stockings and opening presents. I may have eaten the half a cookie Santa left to sprinkle some sweetness on my day. I was full of gratitude for my faith, the love and support by which I was surrounded, and especially the lives of the little people and handsome men I lived with. The day was magical. The smiles that radiated from my children's faces when they saw Santa's doings were priceless. Their excitement became mine. My pain was numbed by the medicine of joy that Baby Jesus delivered that Christmas in my home. I felt grateful for having the ability to appreciate what I did have rather than experiencing the natural tendency of focusing on what I had lost. My kids played with their new toys. They also enjoyed the company of the grandparents, uncles and aunties who visited with surprises. It didn't get old to witness their bliss. The evening approached and we got ready to attend Mass as we did every 25th of the month since our daughter's passing. What a perfect way to wrap up such a wonderful day. Church was our happy place and we felt closer to our heavenly angel during our visit. A line wrapped me in his arms. Throughout the mass celebration, the numbing effect of the anesthetic joy faded away. I could feel the pain again. My broken heart had not mended after all. Tears rolled down my cheeks and my chest moved back and forth as if sadness was impeding me from breathing properly. My abs contracted and I crunched forward to hold inside the explosion of agonizing emotions that had taken over me. I took a deep breath and then another one. Inhale peace. Exhale pain, I told myself. I tried to get a grip on myself and concentrated on the message that the priest was sharing as part of the homily. I don't remember what he said exactly, but I have a clear image of how he said it. The tall, dark Haitian man was full of contagious joy. His beautiful smile and white teeth never hit during the mass. He spoke loudly and with enthusiasm. His heart exploded with ecstatic glee as he shared about the birth of Jesus. I didn't get it. How could this man be so thrilled about Jesus being born when he already knew the torturous crucifixion that this poor baby was going to endure? How do you celebrate life when a painful death will follow? I was jealous of the priest's joy. I wanted it so badly. I remember thinking, I want to get there. I want to thank Wafofi with a heart full of joy and gratitude for having enjoyed her for three years. I want to celebrate her life rather than dwell on her death. I want to believe she's eternal and forget about this temporary thing we call life. I want her birthday to be like Christmas, a day of celebration.
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