When I was younger, we used to spend Christmas at my grandma’s house in the country. It was a big old farmhouse, filled with spiders and dust and a whole bedroom of mysterious collectibles that belonged to the grandpa I never met.
Along the upstairs corridor there was a window, its sill scattered with ornaments and sprigs of plastic flowers in glass jars. And every Christmas Eve, I used to sit and stare out at the darkening sky, straining to hear the sound of Father Christmas’s sleigh flying overhead.
I remember the feeling in my stomach, that big ball of excitement and tantalising hope at what was coming; a feeling that, strangely enough, never really ended up complete or satisfied by the close of Christmas Day. But it was a wonderful feeling nonetheless, and one that had always returned by next year.
In 2008, on Christmas Eve, I sat and waited on the stairs of my house in London until my dad came through the front door. It was dark outside, but the house lights were off. He walked into the living room and started crying instead of speaking.
Being told that your mum is going to die is never easy. Being told on Christmas Eve makes it even harder. And two weeks later, as I stood in the rain at the side of a grave in a pair of black Italian heels belonging to my grandmother, I’d never felt so bereft of Christmas spirit.
It’s four years later now, and I still don’t remember that feeling from my youth. Or, rather, I don’t let myself feel it.
For four years I’ve watched the tinsel and the bobbly reindeer headbands, heard the carols and the corny Christmas songs, and seen the excited faces of children and loved up couples wandering the London streets. I’ve gritted my teeth as people jokingly ask me why I don’t seem Christmassy enough. I’ve carefully avoided discussing anything to do with loving this holiday, the wonderful family traditions everyone’s planning on re-enacting yet again – and if it gets tricky to keep out of it, I simply lie.
Sometimes I honestly cannot be bothered to ruin someone’s happiness by explaining that this holiday fills me with dread more than excitement, because I know that there’s a huge hole in the holiday where my mum and her ridiculously overexcessive celebrations of Christmas should be.
Six months ago, one of my best friend’s mums passed away. She was, in turn, one of my mum’s best friends too. Talking to my bereaved friend on Christmas Eve, knowing that she doesn’t really know how, or want to, open up about her feelings to anyone, made me reassess how I feel about it all.
I don’t have a problem with talking about my mum’s death – I’m even writing about it here, with no qualms at all – but when I’m brazenly discussing it, telling the same story time and time again that I know automatically by now, I seem to bypass the pain of it. The memory of that nightmarish fortnight. And how I feel, still, four years on.
But yesterday afternoon, feeling heavy lidded, stone boned, lethargic and glum and apathetic, I lay down on my bed and suddenly realised what was happening.
In my effort to avoid the dreaded Christmas feeling, I’d somehow got myself right back into the energy I’d had to endure when she died. An all-encompassing feeling of futility, heartbreak, and the sense that nothing would ever feel normal or even bearable, ever again.
December is always a hard time for me, but it’s been a different kind of hard this year. I’ve known for a while that I want to be travelling long term, and I think this could well be the last Christmas I spend at home, with my dad, in our little family of two (plus cat).
It’s a hard thing to explain to my dad; that I’m actively planning to not be home next year. But with that difficulty comes a sense of freedom and growth, the chance to take another step forward into the life I have to accustom myself to, without her in it.
The grieving process is a bitch. Just when you think it’s started to dissipate, it comes back with a vengeance, bites you in the arse and ruins your Christmas.
But I think I needed a day like that this year. I needed to remember why I made a promise to myself to do what makes me happy. Life’s too short to waste your time on things you think are suitable, just because the status quo dictates it.
Which is why I’m writing this at 3am, living up to the example my mum set for me of being a nightowl. And despite wishing she was sleeping in the room next door, I know that I’ll still be learning from the examples she set for me for the rest of my life.
Merry Christmas, mum.
`
`
Holy shit Flora, what an amazing, heartbreaking post. You just made me tear up in my cubicle.
I can understand why you don’t feel very christmasy, I wouldn’t either. I can’t even begin to imagine going through what you have. Thank you for sharing this on your blog.
Thanks Liz, although I’m sorry for making you cry!
It takes a lot of courage to speak about something so tragic so publicly. If anything, your decision to write about such a sad event reminds people what’s important in life and how many people suffer at a time of year that should be about celebration.
Thanks for sharing.
I know it’s a somewhat depressing aspect of the festive season to address but yes, I think it’s important to remember how difficult this time of year is for a lot of people. Thanks for commenting, Marco
Flora, what a lovely post, and my heart was wrenched reading this. I too have the same feelings pass through me each year, and it has been a struggle to enjoy Christmas with other peoples families or avoid the conversations about why I am not so cheerful.
I remember every Christmas decorating the tree, that feeling of excitement in your tummy as a kid in anticipation of Christmas day to come. I would always sleep beside the tree until Christmas eve because of the colorful warm hue of the lights. The year my mum passed, I slept beside that tree and was startled awake by the sound of her Church heels walking through the living room on the hard wood floor, that continued down the hall even after I woke.
December also holds my father’s birthday, which adds even more weight to the gloom of this month.
But after visiting their graves this year after traveling for 8 Months in New Zealand, it was different. Sure, the family gatherings I attended still seems awkward because I felt I didn’t belong, or that hole was still empty and more apparent then ever. But remembering them, accepting our mortality, using their memory as fuel to keep me strong, and letting myself escape the gloom helped me a lot this season.
Grieving is quite a bitch, and sometimes you want to sulk in the sadness. But it seems you have the right mindset moving forward. I think the trip will fill you with freedom, and using your mum as inspiration will make the holidays lighter and your spirit stronger. I’m sure your pop is proud even if he cant understand leaving, and I’m sure your mum will be smiling at all your adventures to come just like that photo.
This literally made a knot in my throat. It was a lovely post Flora, thank you so much for sharing. it.
Ryan, this was such a sad comment to read, but it really helps to remember that those of us in this situation are in effect all part of a community. I often find that I start talking about losing my mum, only to find that someone in the conversation has lost a parent too. And you’re totally right; realising and relishing the freedom to be found at the same time as mourning can be a great help.
Thanks also for sharing your story, I know it’s not easy. I hope your Christmas was ok
My mother died in September but knew Christmas would be dreadful. I arranged to be out of town tramping on Christmas Day the first year, the second I was on a plane to India, it wasn’t until the 3rd year I could handle being in the country again. I’ve never had a set pattern for Xmas day ever since. After about a decade I could think about the old days with happiness, but it takes a long time, and trite “Merry Christmases” certainly don’t help. I really do suggest getting a long way away from the “usual” Christmas
I’m sorry for your loss, Lissie, and thank you for sharing your methods of coping with the holiday. I think avoiding the ‘typical’ Christmas celebrations is definitely a good idea – four years down the line and I still would prefer to just not mark Christmas day at all really!
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. What an amazingly strong and inspirational person you are Flora.
Thanks Em, that means a lot
Great post, Flora. Very honest.
Much love to you Flora. As you know, my Mum died on Christmas Day three years ago so I can empathise with how you feel. This year was the first time I spent it away from home. It made the day something different altogether, and I really appreciated not having the long run-up that happens in England. I don’t think I’ll stay away every year though. I also wrote a post on it. Thank you for yours. It’s really beautiful and I know not easy to share x
So much love to you as well my darling, I know this time of year will probably always be hard for us both but hopefully we’ll both learn to deal with it better as time goes on
I read your post too and empathised with every word – it’s hard to be away from family and yet equally hard to choose to be with them when someone so integral isn’t there. Hope you’re doing ok xx
Wow. You are so strong, Flora. For writing this, yes, but also for enduring it during a time when others are celebrating. I can only imagine how incredibly difficult that is, and I admire you so much for sharing your story so openly.
I’ll always remember your story. I am sure your mother is so proud of how far you’ve come, and how you’re following your passions for travel and writing and connecting with others. You are SUCH an inspiration, and my heart goes out to you this holiday season as the healing process continues. May you find moments of cheer and happiness even through the pain.
Thank you so much for your kind words Kay!
Beautiful post! I can’t imagine the depth and scope of these emotions but I know very well what a beautiful soul you have. Even in our brief time together your light and love touched me and will always remain a positive and passionate energy no matter how far apart we may be, you are always with me. Love you darling!
Thanks sweetie! Huge love to you too
Flora, that was both sad and beautiful.
I’m sat at work with teary eyes after that wee tug at my heart strings.
Massive respect!
*have a cheek*
Aww darling! Apologies for tugging at your wee heart strings
But thanks very much for the offer of a cheek, I’ll gladly take you up on it!
Wow Flora, you’ve conveyed your feelings so beautifully and touchingly that I had a lump in my throat.
Though I can’t begin to imagine your loss, all I can do is to wish you all the courage in the world.
I would surely value my parents presence and love around me more than I do, and quit taking all of it for granted. Thank you dear xx
Thanks Akshay
This is heartbreaking and so beautifully written, Flora. So sad and heartfelt. I really did have tears in my eyes when I read this.