Every year for the last five, I’ve played an international game that has steadily grown into a phenomenon online: Whamageddon. The premise is simple: you must make it from zero dark on December 1 through midnight on Christmas Eve in your time zone (as this began, I believe, in Scandinavia) without hearing the sweet, dulcet tones of George Michael crooning “Last Christmas.” Believe me when I say, the rules have gotten really specific. They’ve had to. This year, nearly 13,000 soldiers clocked in with victory or loss records.
What that means is there is important information we need to know, like, can it be a cover? Sure, we’ve decided, but who would want to? Really, the only good thing about the song is that George Michael sings it, anyway.
What about Whamicide? Whamatricide? Is it acceptable to Sabo-Wham your friends and family?
Not much you can do about it. The second you hear and know what song it is, you’re out. So if your friends and family decide to, they can send you to the halls of Whamhalla, your ghost enjoying mead with other fallen soldiers, a wonderland where, I presume, George Michael plays all day long, promising to be our father figures. Many times when someone has just escaped an attempt on their “life,” they will say, “Praise Odin, Praise St. George.” This never gets old for me. This year, people started taking elaborate death photographs in the aisles at Target, in the car, in their adult children’s kitchens.
Some people like to participate but still be in the world like a normal person. I do not understand this.
Whamageddon may not be the reason for the season, but it has become the highlight of my season. I love to pretend I’m basically a spy evading capture. I love the legends the group built surrounding Whamhalla (you get to go if you win, too: it’s just that your corporeal self will be drinking mead with St. George and the fallen. And probably Andrew Ridgeley. We talk about him less. Obviously, Whamhalla is not real, but this year, they did a small batch run of mead, so it’s growing more and more real).
I wear headphones to the grocery store. I leave the room during commercials. I forbid any and all radio, yes, even NPR, because God only knows where the song is lurking (though some radio stations give—and I’m not kidding—trigger warnings).
I’m not sure where I’m supposed to tell you that I’m a custodial stepmother, but we don’t have my stepdaughter on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning, because it’s clearly part of the reason I outsource my season to a game. As someone who already hates Christmas music, I continue to listen to the only two Christmas songs I like: “Sometimes, You Have to Work on Christmas (Sometimes)” by Harvey Danger and “Hating You for Christmas” by Everclear. These songs, obviously, work year-round if you’re somewhat depressed and have a hair trigger, two traits which seem impossible to correctly identify in oneself, though I do listen to both songs all year round.
I have won the game four times. The only time I have lost is—you can say it with me, right?—last Christmas.
It’s “our” Christmas, now, meaning my stepdaughter is home, and my husband, Andy, and I are somehow trying to replicate the “magic” of a season that is more seasonal affective than jolly. It’s fifty-seven degrees outside and raining. It’s sometime between the twenty-sixth and the twenty-ninth. I’ll be honest, I can never remember days during this time (I even have a song for that! John Roderick and Jonathan Coulton’s “The Week Between” talks about everyone’s disorientation; mine is only slightly different because I generally can’t process temporal meaning since my stroke). What this means is I can listen to “Last Christmas,” now. I can even enjoy it. I am enjoying it, right now. One year, we picked my stepdaughter up on Christmas Day to drive down to where I’m from, right outside Dallas, and right before we left, I heard George Michael had died. We listened to him for, easily, six hours on the road, me occasionally crying.
I guess I should have told you, this story is absolutely about the time I was Whammed, and Whamageddon, and my stepdaughter, and how strange it is to try and make Christmas matter when you’re an adult. But it’s also about George Michael. A lot of people got into Whamageddon because they don’t like “Last Christmas,” and to those people I say, “Well. Yeah.” But George Michael has always meant something to me. The day he died, I received several texts to see if I was “OK”; I did what pretty much everyone in my age group does: I headed to Facebook to let people know to stop reaching out individually.
Three years ago, I stared at the blinking, “What’s on your mind?” cursor and wrote this:
I loved George Michael. I loved him wholly and completely. I bought a copy of Ladies and Gentlemen when I was very young, and loved it so much that I bought another copy to give to my mom. Something innate in me connected to the joy in his voice and music.
Anyone who knew me in college and was close enough to me to have been in my dorm room knows that the first thing you saw upon entering was a giant poster of George Michael from the “Faith” video. It was 2004, but I wanted so badly to be part of that MTV generation, and I studied those videos, the grunge and the pop, like a scholar. I remember sitting in front of my TV, all the way up by the screen, with my headphones plugged in so I could hear it better. I recorded his songs off the radio. I danced, alone, in my room, and felt alive in my body, apart from anything else. I had never felt like my own person. I did while I listened to “Freedom! 90.”
I don’t usually write about these losses because I know I’m one of millions, but that’s what made George Michael (and David Bowie, and Prince) special: you never felt like you were noise in the crowd when you were listening to them. I remember the charged sexuality in “Freedom! 90” and knowing something magical was happening there. And even though the song is explicitly Not About Me, I still feel the release and joy in that chorus break.
That’s what real artists do. He didn’t lead people gently towards empathy. He smashed it in their face like a wedding cake. I still listen to George Michael on a weekly (at least) basis. His music makes me feel—well, I’d say “good,” but it just makes me FEEL. That’s a pretty tall order for number one hits.
I’m sad he’s gone. I’m so sorry for his family and anyone else suffering the loss of the man more than the music. I’m grateful for what he left behind.
I got comments from friends, and even three years later, I resist reading them. I don’t really think I was writing that for the public—I was writing so they would let me retreat into my grief.
About a month later, my husband would have to write a Facebook post announcing to our friends that I’d had a stroke, and no, we didn’t know what that meant yet, but he’d keep them posted. I am so precious about a singer that I still can’t pay attention to the comments: I cannot imagine the deluge of comments and messages he must have dealt with.
Now, through the grace of Facebook Memories, we live and re-live both hardship and championship, all on an annual basis. It is always so strange to me to see my comments from three years ago about my Whamageddon victory and then, the next day, George Michael’s loss.
So three years ago, I won Whamageddon but lost George Michael not knowing that I would spend most of the coming year regaining my physical and mental abilities. Even in recovery, the mental was always more “there” than not, but I saw a lot of small things—some aphasia here, some forgetting there—that scared me. That still scare me. I don’t talk about the moments as much, unless I get so frustrated people around me notice. There was an incident recently where I called a pillowcase an “apartment” and I couldn’t get off the word “apartment” no matter what. I’m almost three years out.
Everyone does that sometimes. Not everyone wonders, “Is this the next one?” I always do.
That first post-stroke Christmas season, it was relatively easy to win Whamageddon. Andy and my stepdaughter’s mom have an agreement that makes a lot of sense on paper, and seems to work out emotionally, most of the time, as well as anything: we have her for Thanksgiving (his family’s big holiday) and she goes with her mom for Christmas (her mom’s family’s big holiday).
(Before the stroke, Andy and I took the time after Christmas—the “nowhere” days that float between holidays—to drive down to my family in Texas. We’re not sure how my body would react now, but it’s a risky try. It’s completely possible we’d get down there and have a hard time getting back to Indiana. This means I don’t exactly get to just go down to Texas. I remember when we first made this deal thinking, “Well, this makes sense. I can’t have a baby.” My sister could, though, and I didn’t think about that. I FaceTimed with a nine-month-old baby boy, Everett, on Christmas this year. I’ve still never met him. I wouldn’t be allowed to pick him up, now, at his weight.)
But the season right after the stroke, we were feeling pretty good: I’d survived. I barely remembered the anniversary of George Michael’s death. I didn’t go out shopping. I didn’t watch much TV: I was preparing for the next semester, and I knew it was going to take everything. We enjoyed the time we had together and I was so confused on time, it didn’t really matter what day it said it was on the calendar. (Really, it didn’t matter: sometimes people just pretend it doesn’t matter, and sometimes you really just don’t know. I recommend having a stroke if you want to try the latter out for a year or two.) In fact, I think I danced my first slow-dance with Andy—to whom I’d been married eight years—during that first post-stroke Christmas break.
It had started sort of as a joke, and I don’t know exactly when it became serious, but as the turntable changed grooves from the campy “I Want Your Sex” and we stopped laughing, we pushed the coffee table up a little so there was enough room to sway like eighth graders. I would have never had the chance to do this at a dance, and honestly, I imagine in Ohio, neither would he, to “One More Try.” But in our own living room, pushed up against each other in low lighting, it was still fun and a little subversive, me being a professor, to mourn a “teacher” leaving a student, but if you know the song, it’s desperate. He’s not being cheeky. It’s not campy. The pain in his naturally deep range is clear, but when he hits the high notes, it’s outrageous. Humans shouldn’t sound so good, and neither should heartbreak, but everything’s on a spectrum. Michael’s pain was always best illustrated when he pushed through it into a worse feeling, something you couldn’t name, something you’d almost ache to feel with him.
I remember feeling goosebumps. Sound cliché? It is. And a few years before, I wouldn’t have even noticed. But the stroke knocked out the nerve reactors in the right side of my body, and seeing and feeling anything on that side was a strange and ghostly gift, a bit like being possessed. I’m still not sure I wasn’t. But there we were, swaying to the song, dancing for the first time. We didn’t even dance at our wedding.
It was the second season after my stroke—last Christmas—that I lost.
The most extraordinary thing wasn’t that I lost. It’s that I lost by shenanigans and hijinks, a gift I’ll still never fully be able to explain. Because I don’t remember winning all those other years (though I have it all on my trusty Facebook memories). Winning isn’t hard for me. Like I said: I avoid at all costs. I have friends text me “Target’s got it on rotation.” (I wish I were kidding.) I’m adept at eluding anything I want to avoid.
But almost two years after my stroke, I had been trying to start a prank war with my student assistant, Charlie. He’d practically become a part of the family by that time: he’d come over for dinner and we’d argue about poetry for hours. He would bring food by. Sometimes he just called and asked if we were okay. He was incredibly thoughtful, so he seemed like a natural target for my desire for mischief. (I’m kidding. To those of you blessed enough to have a Charlie . . . well, I mean, TRY the prank war. It won’t work. But you should try it, gently.)
The problem is—and would always be, in any war with Charlie—I couldn’t win because he wouldn’t engage. I had other students try to get him to fire back. I told him it was totally fine for him to use a proxy! I was getting kind of desperate. Finally, I told Andy, “I just don’t think he’s going to do it.”
“It’s not really the kind of relationship you guys have,” he said.
“We are great at arguing. That’s one of the reasons I love him.”
“Yeah, but elaborate pranks? He’s never going to try and embarrass you. He’s afraid you’ll feel like maybe it’s a ‘stroke thing.’”
I had to concede. That sounded about right. Plus, we were so busy looking at graduate school information: he was sending out applications, and I was trying to write a letter that sent someone I love far away from me.
One day, though, I got a text from Charlie.
“Katie, good news! Call me when you get this.”
There are a few things that I didn’t take into account in my excitement. First, most of the graduate programs he was applying to hadn’t even stopped taking applications yet, so he most likely hadn’t already heard back, though I assumed that’s what had happened. Second, we didn’t talk on the phone—but when we did, one of us just called the other. (I know, it seems inhumane now. It’s even stranger, as that is his chosen way of communicating now that he’s gone, and I still feel uncomfortable hitting “Call Home” without a text first.)
But guys. This was my hotshot candidate. This was the kid who would move away and it would become a scar. I knew some other school had to have already pulled the trigger, ready to give him a full ride. So I called.
And it rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And because I am stupid, I thought, “Oh God, it’s got to be huge news, because he must be on the phone with his parents.”
And then the answering machine kicked on. I heard Charlie say, “Sorry, Katie,” as “Last Christmas” started playing. (This was his voicemail until Easter, from what I understand, and I think I probably owe his mom an apology for that. Sorry, Carol!)
Sabo-Wham. Whamicide. The . . . greatest prank of all.
One thing I can say I do to keep myself kind of safe in the Christmas season is I don’t always tell people I’m playing Whamageddon. Andy knows, obviously. Seeing a perfect chance for revenge, he explained the whole stupid thing to Charlie, who then took me out for the first time in four years—and the only one in five, now.
When people ask me what I want for Christmas, I say “nothing,” not because I’m difficult, but because I really don’t need for anything physical, and I don’t know how to say, “I’d appreciate knowing you’re thinking about me sometimes.” That’s not a present. That’s a weird thing we all want all the time, someone to validate our feelings and small moments by witnessing them. By that metric, this was one of the best presents I have gotten in years. And every time I heard his voicemail for months, I laughed all over again. Winning Whamageddon is about community, but for four out of five years, that community has been full of well-meaning strangers.
Last Christmas, though, my husband and friend joined forces against my cheerful imaginary friends. This year, everything has settled into a new “same.” I’m still never going to have the same energy level as I did four Christmases ago. My stepdaughter is a teenager now, in high school, and replicating a Christmas morning makes less and less sense. My husband is a patient-care tech, and because medical problems don’t stop over the holidays, he works on a lot of “important” calendar days. Charlie lives far enough that it might as well be Texas: I can’t drive up for a visit. Not with this new reality. He doesn’t have a car.
Worst, George Michael is never coming back.
So this year, Andy worked Christmas Eve, and even though we knew he was going to work Christmas Day, too, we decided to try and enjoy some of the day. At some point, I looked at the clock and realized I’d won. Like everything else, it was underwhelming: I should have set an alarm for midnight, something that was going to jumpstart something that meant something. But I don’t even think I said anything to Andy. Still, I played along. I celebrated, “reported” to headquarters on Facebook, and then listened to . . .
Well. “Freedom! 90.” But I’m always going to listen to George on Christmas. I might cry because he’s gone, or because I know that the calendar doesn’t matter: you don’t just get a miracle because it’s Christmas Day. You don’t get to keep singers you love alive. You don’t get to see every person you love, even if you see them almost every day. You don’t always get to drive to Texas. And really, you probably won’t ever have people care about your stupid game enough to Sabo–Wham you again, and you shouldn’t drink or allow yourself to think that, because then you’ll wonder if it’s your game or you that they don’t have time to worry about.
You’ll make excuses: it’s such a busy season. No one has time to worry about everyone. So that will be your new plan: you’ll spend Christmas wondering who is being forgotten, and messaging them. The recently divorced, parents whose children are out of the house. You do it all while listening to the Faith record in your office. You listen to Ladies and Gentlemen in the car. You watch the Outside video on YouTube because George Michael lived in a way you wish you had the guts to: honest, loud, and with open mouth, sometimes caressing, sometimes just baring his teeth. And then you try to be the best damned person you can because that is another way of being invisible.
You don’t cry in front of people. That’s a given. And every Christmas, you’ll have hoped it would be different, but you’ll cling to the game because it seems lighthearted and fun, like you’re part of something. Maybe some Christmases, you’ll fool yourself. Of course, George had a lot to say about fools: maybe, deep down, that’s the strangest part of all of this. You’re celebrating an anniversary, every year, about giving your heart and having it thrown away. Every year, your heart is gone for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, returning later in the day for “another” Christmas Eve. Wasn’t that the benefit of divorce anyway? Two Christmases?
It’s not a perfect metaphor. In the metaphor, maybe you’re the villain, the person who holds the heart all year and just shares on Christmas? Sometimes the ribbons don’t come cleanly off packages.
But I don’t care what you do, I suppose. I’ll worry about you if you need worrying. You’ll be one of the people I text. If you’re playing the game, I won’t Sabo–Wham you—and I don’t need your worry. But while I listen to “Careless Whisper” and where I might have once cried in what I called my “shower confessional,” I won’t do that anymore. I’ll think about how great it was to have George on this earth. I’ll talk to my family and friends. I’ll love that people cared so much one year they tanked the game for me. I’ll wait for my stepdaughter to get home so it can be “real” Christmas, even though I know, I am a fool if I believe such a thing really exists.
And I will ascend, mightily, to Whamhalla, where I don’t have to worry about not drinking because of my stroke medication, because these halls are imaginary, and I will drink mead with the gods, one of whom, I’ll forever believe, is George Michael.
Katie Darby Mullins teaches creative writing at the University of Evansville. Her first book of poetry, Neuro, Typical, is forthcoming from Summer Camp Publishing. In addition to being nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net multiple times and being the associate editor of metrical poetry journal Measure, she’s been published or has work forthcoming in journals like Barrelhouse, the Rumpus, Iron Horse, Hawaii Pacific Review, BOAAT Press, Harpur Palate, and Prime Number. She is the executive writer for the Underwater Sunshine Music Fest.