Why it’s worth it to get out of bed and join the holiday fun, even when you don’t feel like it

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There was a fire in the fireplace and a bar fully stocked with various wine offerings. We were gathering to celebrate the holidays and the end of another year filled with highs and lows. 

Moments before, as I sat outside in my car wondering if I was in fact ready to join the party, I was sorely tempted to go home and retreat to my bed, my nest of pillows and books and numerous copies of The New Yorker. Throw in a cocktail and it sounded good. Exactly one year earlier to the day, my husband, Michael, had received his cancer diagnosis. 

In the past 12 months my world has changed.

Sitting there in the dark and watching as partygoers entered the restaurant, mostly two by two, I thought about what Michael would do were he in my place. 

He would get out of the car and join his friends and coworkers and celebrate being alive. I could almost feel him push me. 

“Go,” he would say. “Drink from your cup.”

That particular phrase has a history in our relationship. But it also summed up Michael’s philosophy on life – drink the cup dry every time it is offered.

When we were first dating (43 years ago) and still testing the waters trying to discover just what we were to each other, I was in the uncomfortable position of having to decide whether or not to back out of a trip to Palm Springs with a handsome gentleman from England. We had had a couple of dinner dates which Michael knew about. Michael and I were not yet “exclusive,” so even though I had doubts about the trip, Michael encouraged me to go. 

“Drink from your cup,” he said again and again. 

I was beginning to feel that if I backed out of the long weekend at an exclusive resort, it would put pressure on Michael. I would be making a stand of some sort. I would be choosing him and perhaps he didn’t want to be chosen just yet.

I went. It was fancy. A private plane was involved. A beautiful cottage with a private swimming pool. A personal chef. The Englishman, charming and generous and trying his best to woo me, could see rather quickly that I wasn’t rising to the occasion. It wasn’t his fault, it was simply that my heart, I discovered, was back in Berkeley with Michael. 

I wanted to be with him in the local pub where we drank wine from jelly jars, listened to Irish music and pitched darts until closing time. 

I lasted less than 24 hours. The Englishman, showing his disappointment, did not offer the private plane to send me home. Southwest, however, had no issues with me, so I flew off into the sunset and back to Michael. 

He was thrilled. 

So, last week, when I sat in my car, parked across the street from the charming Home restaurant and peered through the windows at chatting partygoers in their festive clothes, I told myself that this was a drink-from- your-cup kind of event. 

I opened the door and went in. 

Warm greetings came at me like gentle hugs as I made my way to the bar, where a fine young man poured me a fine glass of wine. It was convivial and spirited and as I circulated, I began to relax a bit. When we were invited to take our places at one of the many tables set up for dinner, I hung my jacket on the back of my chair and began to chat with my tablemates as scrumptious plates of food arrived for us to share. 

Sitting next to me was a tranquil young woman in a holly-green sweater resting her hand on her round, full belly. She is due in a matter of weeks. She had a blissful look on her face. It made me think of a different version of myself.

Forty years ago, Michael and I attended his first company holiday dinner. He had been working for C&N Tractors in Watsonville for just under a year and I was big and round with Kira, who would not be born until March. I can easily recall sitting at the festive table wearing a tent of a dress made of Guatemalan fabric woven in blues and purples at the old Dream Inn, people chatting all around while I kept my attention on Kira. The miracle of her after experiencing two miscarriages. 

She was thriving inside me. I was experiencing joy like I never had before. I was cradling the future. The possible. 

And now it is 40 years later. How did that happen? I glance over at my tablemate and watch as she caresses her belly. I simply cannot believe so much time has passed. Wasn’t I just that young woman?

I imagine her years from now recalling this cold winter night, with her child safe and warm inside her and remembering this evening. This magical time when the future was filled with adventures in mothering and anything was possible. And I wish for her what I have had. Decades with the man that she loves and the child that is on its way.