When a Memory Brings Him Back — and Takes Him Away Again

I came across a video from December 2012 of Alex and Jason playing in the kitchen. They were just being their goofy selves. But then I saw Alex—alive, moving on my screen. I heard his voice, and suddenly, for a moment, he wasn’t gone anymore.

He was here.
I could see him.
I could hear him.

Then reality smashed me right in the face.

I was watching a memory—and that’s what I have left now: memories.

Alex isn’t here. I don’t get to see him come downstairs for Christmas tomorrow. I don’t get to hear his voice, give him a hug, or see his smile. That’s when I felt my breath start getting faster and shallower, the panic attack gathering steam, rolling in.

I ended up breaking down in my bedroom, clutching a photograph of him, wishing and begging for him to come home. It was one of the worst panic attacks I’ve had in a while. I knew I was going to have a difficult time tomorrow, on Christmas Day, without him—but I wasn’t prepared for this moment today.

I could feel myself getting lightheaded and dizzy as I made my way downstairs to take my medication. I was in the kitchen when Kat came back inside from enjoying the sun on our porch, and she came rushing over to me.

That’s when the big wave hit.

Suddenly, it was okay to break down.

I wasn’t alone. I had support—someone to hold me up and keep me from collapsing onto the floor. Someone to steady me when everything felt like too much.

When I come down from these panic attacks, I am completely exhausted—mentally, emotionally, and physically. All I feel capable of doing is collapsing on the couch and trying to recover.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, having my first Christmas without Alex. I don’t expect it to be any easier than today.

What I do know is that I am going to do my best to compartmentalize my emotions so that I can be present and enjoy the time I have with Kat and Jason tomorrow. They are still here. They are still important. They are still loved. My grief for Alex should not take away from the time and joy I can share with them.

I can find a way to make time and space for everyone.

I can smile, be happy, and feel love while being with Jason and Kat on Christmas. And I can also find time for myself—to miss Alex, to mourn him, and to love him too.

Grief doesn’t mean the love is gone—it means the love is still here, finding new ways to exist.