I Don't Want To "Get Through" This

Andrea and I spent ten Christmases together. We loved driving around at night, marveling at newly twinkling homes. We loved dressing our dogs in festive sweaters. We loved the tree lot in Longmont that offers a free tree to anyone who can’t afford one. We cried every time we saw the sign.

A lot of people write about how difficult the holidays are, especially after a great loss. How these days are something to get through. But Andrea’s poems run through me like blood now, little internalized prayers. And it’s these lines that return to me now:

My father recently told me how my grandmother, after her husband died, avoided weddings and bar mitzvahs for a year. In the Jewish tradition, one isn’t supposed to attend festive events while mourning. No live music. No celebrations. No excessive joy.

A couple nights ago, while I was scouring the house for what could possibly serve as the star atop my tree this year, Andrea thought, Look at Meg. She is a Christmas miracle.

I know this. How? I just do.

Allowing myself to be festive this year feels like saying thank you for still being alive. Thank you to this body that can still fuss with droopy branches, still slip our dogs’ arms into candy-cane sweaters, still savor the cookies Andrea’s sister baked and mailed to me from Maine.

Today I am re-releasing one of Andrea’s Substacks from three years ago. I often say it is a gift to look back at the poems they wrote for me, the notes they tucked into my suitcase, the souvenirs of how much I was loved.

And it is a gift.

But what I appreciate most about reading this piece is not how much Andrea loved me. It is how much I loved them, and how clearly we both knew it.

We cannot control how much we are loved in this lifetime. But we can control how much we love. That is the gift. Hearts we can open like presents. Hearts we can give every day.

Please enjoy this beautiful newsletter from Andrea, Christmas 2022.

No one on the planet could beat Meg in a wrap battle. Everytime she receives a gift, she saves the ribbons, the bows, and the box [and maybe the paper, if it’s in pristine condition]. All summer she sits on our porch in a bikini, Googling, “beautiful christmas wrapping ideas.” This year she took it to a whole new level, purchasing an orchard of dried fruit to weave into the bows. Our gifts look like they were wrapped in a log cabin in front of a wood burning stove in the 1800’s by Martha Stewart’s great great great great grandmother.  

To Meg, the ultimate gift to decorate is the Christmas tree. Her collection of ornaments, lights and garland takes up half the storage space in our garage. Because my immune system is weakened by chemotherapy and it’s too risky to spend the holiday with family this year, we put extra effort into picking out the perfect tree. By extra effort I mean we smelled every tree in the lot, searching for one fragrant enough to fill each air molecule in our home with memories of advent calendars, sleigh rides, roasted chestnuts, gingerbread houses, skate parties on the frozen pond in the forest behind my childhood home in northern Maine.

When decorating the Christmas tree, Meg considers the position of each ornament with the focus of a professional golfer eyeing the angles of the green on the final hole of the US Open. When I hang an ornament, I can see her in the corner of my eye forcing her hands behind her back to keep herself from guiding my arm the way a parent might guide a child riding a bicycle for the very first time. If ever I step out of the room to make a cup of tea, I’ll return to find the ornaments I hung, rehung on “better branches.” 

This year, after the tree was decorated perfectly, and Meg was as happy as a little elf, I started sneezing. A few hours later I was sneezing more. The next day I woke up so congested I felt like I was breathing underwater. When chemo drops my immune markers to concerning levels, I get a call from the nurse with instructions on how to keep myself as healthy as possible. The first thing the nurse says is, ``Remove all cut flowers from your home.” 

“Is a Christmas tree a giant cut flower?” I asked Meg. “Do I have a cold or am I reacting to the tree? Am I allergic to Christmas?” 

I was sitting on the downstairs couch, trying to Google the answer to my questions when I looked out the window and saw a Christmas tree flying through the air. Meg had removed all the ornaments, walked out to our upstairs porch, and heaved our beloved tree out of our house. When I raced upstairs to see if she was OK, I found her stringing Christmas lights on a flimsy plastic fern. I burst into tears. “I’ve never,” I said, “in my whole life, loved anyone more.” 

Dear reader,  I wish you an imperfect holiday season, full of the kind of love that makes breathing easier. Full of the kind of people who fill your lungs with air. 

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P.S Since the initial writing of this, it turned out to be a cold. I’m not, in fact, allergic to Christmas. Sadly the tree could not be salvaged, as it is buried under a foot of Colorado snow in negative seventeen degree weather. And, just an hour ago, Meg said she had a gift for me. I came downstairs to a giant box, inside––an artificial tree––eternal as my love for her, and Meg’s love for Christmas. 

Thank you so much for being here. I wish you all excessive joy.

Love,
Meg [+ Andrea, forever].

Below are just a few ways you can keep the spirit of giving & open-heartedness (to us, to others, and to yourself) alive in 2026:

• Becoming a Paid Subscriber (keeps this free for others who need it!)

• Gift subscriptions

• Our books — finally available in the same location!

• Watching the Oscar-shortlisted (!!!) documentary, Come See Me in the Good Light & telling your friends about it. I think this is the perfect holiday film, because it’s about gratitude, love, family, connection, and will bring you closer to whoever you watch it with. Also your bigoted uncle will fall in love with a nonbinary person in 7 seconds.