Grief is a thief, stealing our joy, especially during the holiday season

I had a moment. Actually, I may have had a few these past couple of weeks, blips in time when it felt as if my heart had stopped while everything and everyone around me continued in their usual frenetic pace. I don’t know how else to describe that suspension, that sudden and searing reminder that not all is as it should be.

Grief, the thief.

It steals joy, pilfers peace. It loots when you’re not looking. And though I’ve been slogging forward, getting better and ruminating less, it has visited when I least expect it. I should’ve known. I should’ve prepared. But, truly, could I have done anything differently?

This isn’t the first year, not even the second without my daughter and father. I’ve been through this before, but holidays are notorious for their ability to resurrect memories, for adding that bitter aftertaste to the sweet dessert. A phrase, the taste of a particular dish, the jaunty notes of a melody can call to mind the people we’ve loved and lost.

Which is what happened to me. In the middle of a week of activities, when I was deliriously happy because all my sons and grandchildren were in the same city, the tentacles of sorrow grabbed my heart and shook it hard. For good measure, that happened a couple of times.

It didn’t last long. Nor was it so debilitating as to ruin any event. It was stealthy enough, however, to surprise and throw me off balance.

I really shouldn’t blame the festive season. Grief comes and goes, sometimes lingers, sometimes rushes through, and it doesn’t care the time of year or even if you’re in the middle of something fun. It seems to exist for the purpose of forcing us to acknowledge the impermanence of … well, the impermanence of everything.

I recently told a friend that the process of mourning is like walking a tightrope. With practice, you learn to balance. You learn the spots where the wire dips and you know to brace yourself. Just the same, the unforeseen — a gust of wind, the distraction of a bird, sunlight that blinds — can topple you at any moment. It’s hard to prepare for that kind of unpredictability.

I do know, of course, that particular incidents tend to stir up those emotions. Conversations with my daughter’s daughter gut me. She’s a teenager now, impulsive, funny and talkative, a girl as interested in makeup and boys as her mother was at that age.

Her life, like that of many adolescents, is one of contradictions. One minute she’s talking about her latest crush, the next she’s climbing the jungle gym. She’s equally at home practicing dance moves in front of a full-length mirror as she is playing dress up with younger cousins almost half her age.

Lately she’s asked telling questions about her mother, questions that only I can answer. Who was her first boyfriend? Did she suffer from period cramps? How did she like school? Why did she decide to be a social worker? I don’t know if I’m making too much of it, but these conversations sometimes feel like more than simple curiosity. It’s as if she’s creating, detail by detail, anecdote by anecdote, a tangible image of someone who, over time, grows more mysterious.

I try to answer honestly, embellishing often, omitting occasionally. But whatever the line of questioning, whatever my answers, these conversations leave me unmoored, pocked with guilt and anger, and acutely aware of how my loss is compounded by her own. It’s hard to mend what cannot be repaired.

After these Thanksgiving setbacks, I’ve decided to let those “frozen” moments be. I’ve realized that sometimes you work so hard at keeping it together that, in the end, you’re too spent to feel anything at all. Best to allow that emptiness, that guilt and anger, to have its time, then let it ebb with the outgoing tide.

Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.