Some people think they’re invincible when they’re teenagers. I’ve always had this idea that I was invincible during the month of December. The world always seemed to be at its happiest during the Christmas season, and I grew up using that happiness as a shield against the inherent sadness of having a birthday in December—the time of year most people are too busy to stop and really celebrate you.
This changed when my grandpa, Ernie Aldover, passed away on December 3, 2018. He and my grandma were the first generation of my family to immigrate to the U.S. from the Philippines—a country my parents, sister, and I have never been to nor have much personal connection to, aside from heritage. Our direct ties to the Philippines live and die with my grandparents, who have always considered the U.S. their true home when I’ve asked them about it. They planned on taking us “back” to visit one day, but their decline in health and my grandpa’s death swiftly shut that idea down.
Once my protector, December became my tormentor. I’ve spent every December since 2018 throwing myself into Christmas festivities and my birthday trying to feel something other than the lasting echoes of my grief.
As the world enters its second holiday season in a global pandemic, I tried to capture these feelings in words.
“Noelle” is my middle name.
Tucked warmly between
my first and last,
it is meant to honor
Decembers past.
It started in a cold winter without snow,
twenty-four years ago.
Brand new parents and grandparents held me tight,
in the gray suburbs of Sacramento.
December is supposed to be a month of blessings
and a month that protects me,
but all it seems to do
is hurt me lately.
Four years ago, December brought an illness,
from which my grandpa would never recover.
Three years ago, December took him away
forever and ever.
The year between was spent in and out of hospitals,
up and down the 405,
between a college apartment and an unfamiliar house,
wondering how much longer he’d be alive.
A year spent in tears,
unlike I’d ever cried before.
His life was so beautiful,
but what was all this suffering for?
“He is at peace now.”
“He did his best.”
Phrases I grew so sick of hearing,
I wondered if December would take me next.
A husband, father, and grandfather,
the first generation to move his family across the world.
A connection with a “homeland” I don’t know as home,
yet white Westerners apparently know as “third world.”
Aunties and uncles I’d never met before
taught me new beliefs.
An amalgamation of Filipino tradition and Catholic theology,
they actually brought me some relief.
My grandpa would not pass on to the afterlife yet,
they said,
because his spirit must first wander the earth for forty days,
similar to something Christ once did.
We needed to have a long viewing for his body,
they said,
because my grandpa needed to see his own body in his casket
to realize he was actually dead.
December takes and takes,
but I haven’t seen my own body in a casket.
December has maimed me,
but it must not have taken me quite yet.
I idealized December’s “good tidings of great joy,”
even when it’s always meant an increase in illness.
In a global pandemic, I’ve realized,
December is a death sentence.
Whether through phone screens or masks,
at a distance or up close, I don’t know when,
but I know that I will embrace
all my friends and family again.
Three years since my grandpa left,
the pain is still present.
But now December
isn’t something I resent.
I’m thankful for my grandma,
my roommate-of-sorts for the past year;
after her sudden May stroke,
what matters most is that she’s still here.
So are my mom, my dad, and my sister,
spending so much more time with her this year than ever.
A “homeland” does not a home make;
our home is this precious time that we’ve spent together.
December, my protector, my season of bright lights,
fairy tales, and, of course, “The First Noelle,”
thank you for the years you have given me.
I’m going to use them well.
Ernesto Aldover was born on November 2, 1935, in Manila, Philippines. Due to the Japanese occupation of the Philippines during WWII, “Ernie” started school four years late, which placed him in the same grade as his future wife, Celia (Felipe) Aldover. They married in 1965 and immigrated to the U.S. in 1967; eventually, they settled in Los Angeles, CA in 1972, where they would raise their children.
Ernie is remembered for his groundbreaking 30 years of work as a civil engineer for the Los Angeles Department of Transportation, his competitive spirit, and his warm presence. He is survived by his wife Celia Aldover, daughter Cecilyn (Tracy) Foote and son Ernesto (Katrina) Aldover, and grandchildren Madison, Marley, Kyle, Samantha, and Luke.
Grief often makes the holidays more difficult, no matter how much time has passed since your loss. I’d love to hear from you how honor your lost loved ones and continue to process your feelings. Thank you so much for reading.
Grief and mental health resources for the holiday season:
CaringInfo | Grief and the Holidays
Teen Vogue | Coping with Grief During the Holidays After Losing Family Members to COVID-19
American Counseling Association | Grief and Loss Resources
Los Angeles County Department of Mental Health | Coronavirus/COVID-19 Mental Health Resources
Mental Health America | Looking for support during the holidays?
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