The Dual Faces of Thanksgiving: Grief and Gratitude

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Cancer took my mother on Thanksgiving in 1987, when I turned 13. I remember few details from before or during that time. I recall going to the hospital only to learn that my mother didn't want to see me; she didn't want to taint my memories with the sights and smells of her deterioration. I peered through the small window of her hospital door and saw the frail body, gaunt face, and hairless head that would never brush against me again.

Conversations became one-sided. Shared laughter ceased. I never sought her advice again. I never acquired her wisdom. If I want to feel sadness, if I want to taste despair, I can make masochistic mental calculations of how much I lost since that Thanksgiving.

Sometimes, snapshots and mental videos of my childhood appear to me on random Tuesday afternoons. I rarely share these regained fragments, but their value is immeasurable. Much of what I know about my childhood comes from other people. They tell me I was a "momma's boy" and that I often clung to her like a lost monkey or lay in her lap staring at clouds in quiet bliss. These stories intrigue me, representing something I can never have. They say my personality is quite similar to hers - emotionally intense, extremely sociable, open to new experiences, and a general lust for life. She raised twin babies on her own (my father left her for another woman when we were two years old). They say I have the same resilience and resolve. I don't understand how she did it as I don't remember her depriving us of anything. For me, these comparisons are aspirational and motivational.

My emotional world crumbled the day she died. I no longer allowed anyone access to my deepest thoughts and feelings. There were dark days that I don't talk about. I drank a lot of liquor. I dated a lot of women. I was angry. I wrestled. I lifted weights. I burrowed my way through mosh pits. I competed with violent passion. I communicated with violent passion. I alienated a lot of people. I drew in other people with this raw, unabashed, unapologetic approach to life. But mostly, I simply did a fantastic job of hiding from myself. I am still quite good at it.

But life is a living, breathing organism. Ten years later, on Thanksgiving, the girl I was dating threw a party and I met her parents and kissed her for the first time. It wasn't planned. It wasn't the best kiss (those were to come later). But it felt like the right person.

A few years later, on Thanksgiving, I was still dating the same girl and was staying at her cousin's house. I took her parents outside and told them that I loved their daughter and wanted to fuse worlds with her. They cried. I cried. Afterwards, I grabbed Sarah's hand to stroll around the house. I asked her to sit down while I stood awkwardly and nervously above her. I must have spent a few seconds too long staring without blinking (I do this sometimes). She let me know that I was acting weird. I spewed an inarticulate rambling of affection before dropping on a knee to propose.

Much that is sacred in my life has its origins on Thanksgiving. Spiritually inclined people attribute many of the blessings in my life to my mother. She ensured that endings and beginnings would exist in the same time, place, and space. She reminds me that barriers and obstacles to what matters most will be overcome and that love transcends and outlasts the worst moments. Regardless of whether I believe in communication with the dead, these are beautiful ideas that I rarely tire of hearing about.

Thanksgiving, as always, will be an emotionally potent day. It's a day of remembrance, a day of love, and a day of gratitude. It's a day that encapsulates the dual faces of life - the grief and the joy, the loss and the gain. And through it all, it's a day that reminds me of the resilience of the human spirit.

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You can hear more about losing my mom, and learn a lot about me, in the most vulnerable interviews I’ve ever given:

Hidden Brain - Click Here or the Spotify Link Below

Hidden Brain - My Unsung Hero - Click Here or the Spotify Link Below

A version of this post appeared first on Psychology Today.

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Dr. Todd B. Kashdan is an author of several books including The Art of Insubordination: How to Dissent and Defy Effectively (Avery/Penguin) and Professor of Psychology and Leader of The Well-Being Laboratory at George Mason University.

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