Whatever happened to quicksand? Remember Gilligan? Or Batman? Or Tarzan? When I was a kid, it seemed to me that the quicksand was the single greatest threat to life. What a horrible way to go. Just sink and sink until there was nothing left of you…and to try to save yourself only accelerated the process. I was seriously scared of walking along and suddenly finding myself in a sand pit with no escape. Imagine my surprise to find out that quicksand was not one of the top causes of death in the world. What a relief to my young mind! One less cause for anxiety!

These days, however, I am finding quicksand back on my mind. Not the physical sinking kind, but the emotional quicksand of anticipatory grief. There is grief of loss and there is grief of expected loss. Those are two very different kinds of grief. Both are suffocating. Both suck you down into a pit from which it is difficult to escape. The difference is that anticipatory grief has an unknown factor. Expected but not here yet. Coming loss but not knowing when, or how, or what time frame.

Add in the holidays. All the memories of Christmases past. All the family get togethers. All the cooking with Mom. All the present openings. Memories flood the emotions. From childhood forward. A lifetime of remembrances. All of them with Mom at her Christmas-loving best. All of them in and around her places. These memories are so sweet, but I find myself in emotional quicksand. Sinking. It feels like with every Christmas event, I am being pulled deeper…always deeper. The sand sinks all around me. Nothing feels solid. There is nowhere to stand.   

Don’t get me wrong. I still love Christmas. I love all the music and decorations. All the markets and lights. But the dementia journey is emotionally expensive, so I have a limited supply of emotional energy. My batteries are low, no matter how many times I recharge them. My Christmas Spirit is waning, and I have very little motivation to increase it. I would rather not participate than to go through the motions half-heartedly.

I cannot do this on my own. Thank God, there are those who throw me a rope to cling to. I hold on, trying to pull myself up from the depths. It is exhausting work, but it gives me respite, even if just for a few moments. I come up for air and appreciate a good breath. A gathering. A show. A concert. I attend Christmas events. Shrouded in sorrow, but lifted in light. Masked in mourning, but raised in restoration. Torn in tears, but healed in hope. Such a mixed bag of feelings.

I am careful where I expend my energy. I know the more I disburse, the more stuck I will become. So, I limit myself. I give myself grace to let traditions slide for the sake of sanity. I change the expectations I put on myself (or that others put on me) to make room for being present for Mom. I allow myself sadness so I can also feel joy.

The baton is being passed ever so slowly. It comes with the knowledge that soon, everything will be different. There is a lostness in that knowledge. A feeling of floating, untethered to anything I have known. A knowing that finding my anchor is up to me now.

One day, I will be out of the quicksand. It might be some time from now, but the day will come. The burden of anticipatory grief will change to the grief of loss. A whole new journey will begin at that time. A new kind of sorrow. For now, I float in limbo. Taking care of myself as best as I can. Trusting the timing. Knowing faith is the rock on which everything else rests…even emotions.

On Christ the solid rock I stand…all other ground is sinking sand…all other ground is sinking sand…