Why New Year’s Eve is Hard for Me By Terri Rimmer

I used to love New
Year’s Eve.

The partying,
drinking, fanfare, the festivities, all the celebration in the air,
the nights leading up to the big evening, and, of course, the big
countdown.

But now those three
words, New Year’s Eve bring with it a crushing blow to the heart,
mind, and spirit. I can’t even stand to hear them and it was only
in the past two years was I able to utter them to people or respond
back to people those same words when they would wish them upon me on
the celebratory evening when the world celebrates as normal people
do.

What changed?

On New Year’s Eve
2005 my boyfriend of two years, Ruben, died of liver cancer at the
age of 53, only two months after being diagnosed.

Then on New Year’s
Eve 2008 my dad, who I had been estranged from for 20 years, but who
I had just started talking to again through email three months before
he died, passed away.

Needless to say, I
have hated the holiday ever since.

I never got to say
good-bye to Ruben because his death was sudden and so these last 13
years have been like I died, too. I stopped showering on a regular
basis, brushing my hair and teeth, and I pretty much gave up on life.
As a result, I’m having to have all of my teeth pulled, I’ve had
to cut massive bird’s nests-like tangles out of my hair on regular
basis, and I force myself to take a shower when I can’t stand
myself any more, when I’m going to meet with a client, have a
doctor’s appointment, or if I’m going to see my daughter.

Ruben and I had big
plans. His laugh was infectious. I can still hear it. He loved kids
and animals and he was great with both. My dog Ripley, who died in
2012, was spoiled by him. I used to take him to visit him at his
office (he worked the night shift). I kept all of Ruben’s love
emails. The bad thing about having a great long-term memory is that
you remember everything that person said to you in detail and
everything about them etched in stone. I dated two con artists after
that and then I gave up. I still dream about Ruben every once in
awhile and when I look at the stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars above
my bedroom ceiling I still remember lying there with Ruben and
talking. He used to call me “Mamacita.”

With my dad it was
way more complicated. He abused my three sisters and I and was living
a double life so his third wife had no idea who he really was. I
couldn’t get away from work in time before they put him in a
medically induced coma after his five strokes. He had his first
stroke and they were going to move him to rehab but after four more
at 74, morbidly obese and diabetic it was too much for him and his
body started shutting down. He wasn’t breathing on his own and he
was brain dead. His wife, a religious person, struggled with whether
or not to turn the machine off but she made the decision to let him
go after an agonizing few days.

I got there when he
was in the coma (I had to travel from out of state) and when we had
to say our good-byes I wound up just crying like a baby and thanking
him for things instead of cursing him out and pulling the plug like I
always said I would do.

I used to spend
every New Year’s Eve in a different hospital chapel since Ruben and
my dad’s death trying not to commit suicide then I ran out of
chapels.

Now at 52 I just saw
my daughter graduate from high school and though I’m not looking
forward to New Year’s Eve once again, I’m relieved it’s gotten
a lot easier.