If You're Not Making It Through the Holidays Unscathed, It's OK

Dia Daoibh, a chairde. Conas atá sibh? Is fáda an lá ó chuala sibh uaim. I know, believe me I know. I have been writing, just not to you all, which is unfortunate. And just as soon as I was feeling great and ready to get back on the horse, it was a big holiday. Then my cat began experiencing some health issues that are stressing me out to the point of not eating myself. I am, however, trying to be better about taking care of myself so that maybe my stress won’t affect her. (I am not unconvinced that the reason my cat is not eating is stress because on Friendsgiving night I locked her in a bedroom so she wouldn’t jump all over everyone and into any food, which would’ve caused a whole host of other issues.) Brigid told me to pray and ask for intercession via clooties, so I did. The piece of twine I wrapped around the branch of the cedar outside my office window is probably the beginning of many. 

The holidays are always a mish-mosh of stress whether it's facing your family, cooking the big meals, cleaning your house, or your cat suddenly stops eating. For me, it was all of the above this year. By the time Monday rolled around and I had to hightail it to the vet, I was a mess. I had done none of my usual routines all week. No yoga. No tarot. No Irish. No pacing. My nervous system did not thank me.

I prepared a modest meal for a few friends this year. I wanted to go back home and see my father who has a lot of health issues, but the cost of travel is nothing to sneeze at, especially when I’m unemployed. After hemming and hawing for weeks about whether I could make it happen, I simply threw my hands up. 

But the dinner we had was lovely. I spatchcocked a turkey for the first time and it turned out to be one of my better turkeys I’ve cooked. Usually, I will make a standing rib roast since most people don’t even want a turkey anyway, but the cost of beef was double and some change than previous years, so I was determined to make the bird as flavorful as I could. I rubbed that baby down with Kerry Gold and let ‘er rip. 

I got to catch up with some friends who I don’t get to see a whole lot, despite living in the same city. One friend of mine and I were shocked to find out we hadn’t seen each other since two Friendsgivings ago, and another since April. Only a grand total of seven folks all told, but it was nice, and I think the people I managed to gather happened to hit it off nicely for the evening.

When I was growing up, I always went to two Thanksgivings—my dad’s side would always have lunch, and my mom would always make dinner. My parents were divorced most of my life, so the holidays we had all together are very foggy in my mind, but I know they existed. 

I used to dread going to Thanksgiving and Christmas lunch with my dad’s side. I adored my uncle and aunt who put it on, but there weren’t many kids my age that would come, and because this was the more conservative side of my family I was on edge.

But when my favorite cousin or my nana would arrive I was happy. My cousin being adopted (and not white), my nana who had suffered a few strokes by then, and my little sister and I made a raucous band that always sat together at the head of one particular table in my aunt’s house. Always without fail. And when some of the younger cousins started to get older, we made sure our seats were saved. I don’t know why the four of us gravitated this way. Maybe because we were all outsiders in our own ways, not wanting to engage with the rest of the clan. Maybe it was because it was the most familiar and normal thing we could come up with.

Before the stroke, it was Nana that would always put on the meal. And they were grand—the kind you come dressed up in your 90s velvet church dress for and the whole house would just be black with people. My cousins, my sister, and I would find some way or other entertaining ourselves. I think I remember them being sort of play-moms to us sometimes. We had a ball.

My aunt threw a pretty good holiday, though, and nearly all on her own. (My dad told me last week she’s retired from the gig.) When I was a kid, these felt more like sit down and wait for it to be over affairs, not that they ever gave this impression themselves, my aunt and uncle. I was never fully comfortable around my dad’s family, and that had a lot to do with the way they were mythologized in my mother’s house, so when I would have to make appearances on holidays, all my body knew to do was gravitate to what did make me comfortable—Nana, my sister, and my cousin.

Nana died in 2017, and in 2020, COVID came along and disrupted all of our lives. I didn’t make it back home to Florida until 2024 for my dad’s 80th birthday, which was kind of like the big Borek parties of yore. You couldn’t move for all the family members and old friends that came from all over creation to see the big guy. I even brought my partner, which I had always been afraid to do.

On Thanksgiving Day, I got up to go to the bathroom, and my dad called. Not wanting to be on the phone with him mid-pre-feasting-shit, I let it ring. I did not expect the voicemail he left which can be transcribed as such: “Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas in case I don’t get you back at Christmas time I won’t have to worry, OK? [singsong] Happy happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. I’m sending all my love to you for Thanksgiving, for a Merry Christmas, for your birthday, alright, we’re all here we’re all safe, we’re all sound. Happy birthday to you.”

Did you cry? Because I cried on toilet at 7:30 am. It’s been a tough last half of the year, tougher still to know I won’t get to see him at all for a while. And even though some of the folks I really wanted, needed, to see did not show up, I was still humbled and grateful to sit around a table and eat green bean casserole my dear friend made, the basque pumpkin cheesecake another baked because I said that my sister had made one last year that was to die for, the family Russian potato salad, the absolute cauldron of Three Sisters’ Stew someone brought. I could go on and on.

But he’s right. We’re all safe, we’re all sound, which in this tumultuous, fascistic world is not a given and is an almost grotesque privilege to have. I am currently making leftover turkey soup, another privilege I can’t quite make sense of. It feels sacrilegious and alien to only be working within the immediate circle around me, but it’s all I have the bandwidth for. Amid the chaos, I am trying to remain tethered to the fulfilling moments of the recent past to keep me going. I don't pretend that it's easy to do even a simple task when your mind and body want to give up, but I can say from experience if you get up the gumption to do it, you will feel better.

These are little things I did for myself to bring me back to Earth so I didn't keep spiraling:

• Wrote my morning pages and most of it was mantra to my cat's health;
• Tied a clootie to my backyard tree for Brigid's aid;
• Answered a friend's phone call;
• Talked to my dad;
• Did yoga for the first time in a week and half and realized my body was so tightly wound I would burst like one of those rubberband balls;
• Completed an Irish lesson;
• Played Marvel Rivals;
• Made soup from my leftover turkey;
• Submitted some poetry to a magazine;
• Made myself write this essay.

Anois, if only I could get my cat to eat. Is that gluttonous of me?

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