Christmas grief, Christmas permission

Occasional extra bit, #3

This is my first Christmas without Lou since 1989. Over the years we did Christmas in a lot of configurations. She spent Christmas in Northumberland with me a few times*. During the many years we lived a couple of streets away from each other in Wimbledon, we would often spend part of the day together. Since we moved to Northumberland, we would travel to her and her family for New Year’s Day, which we called ‘our Christmas’. There’s a lot of discourse about Christmas and families, much of which I dislike - what if family is painful for you, what if you don’t have one - but our New Year celebrations together felt like the best sort of family gatherings. Because they were.

This time last year, we were astonished that Lou was still with us. I had spent a couple of weeks in December staying with her and her family, and keeping her company in hospital; it was a privilege, and it was tough. (I had a complete meltdown when I came across a brass band playing Christmas carols**.) And during that time she gave me a very stern lecture in which she said we should all remember that she loved Christmas, and we should make sure we enjoyed it when she wasn’t here. Of course I said we would and of course I thought that would be impossible.

Here we are in 2022, after her diagnosis but before the worst of it began.

We staggered through last Christmas and New Year, finding ways to enjoy it, and Lou died in January. (When things first started to go really downhill in early December she said ‘I really didn’t want to die at Christmas time’, and I said, some things are out of your control, but even I underestimated how determined she was going to be.)

And now, here we are. It’s Christmas, again.

It’s been a year of deep sadness and slow recovery. I think I thought this grief would be more violent, more torrid; but though it’s been hard and I miss her in my bones, it’s been mostly peaceful. Maybe the long run-up to her death made for the peace, or maybe it’s the fact that we had all had the chance to say all the things we needed to say to each other.

And oddly, I find I am looking forward to Christmas. I thought First Christmas Without Her*** would be something to be endured, but I’ve definitely got some festive mojo going. I’m excited about baking and am beribboning presents like it’s going out of fashion.****

I was wondering why; and then I realised that this post-it note has been stuck to my computer screen since February, when my bereavement counsellor said it to me: Be the things you loved most about the people who are gone.

It’s been something I will have glanced at and barely registered most days, since then. But obviously it’s gone in. Because I loved that Lou loved Christmas.

I’ve said this to you before, and no doubt I’ll say it to you again. But here I am saying it today: Love your people while you can. Love them with everything you have. Don't stint. Giving that love is something you will not ever regret.

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You may not need these as Christmas approaches, but in case you do:

• You have permission to put care of yourself before care of others.

• You have permission to gift within your means.

• You have permission to eat and drink as you wish, without guilt or shame.

• You have permission to go to bed whenever you like.

• You have permission not to gift at all.

• You have permission to laugh until Brussels sprouts come out of your nose.

• You have permission to go home when you are ready.

• You have permission to say ‘no, thank you.’

• You have permission to delight in gifting.*****

• You have permission to excuse yourself from conversations you are not enjoying.

• You have permission to watch films all day in your pyjamas.

• You have permission to recognise that there can be happiness in the midst of sadness.

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I’ll see you in 2026. Thank you for your unstinting support and compassion this year. I will never forget it.

Stephanie x

*including the memorable year when my Mum gave her a cookery book called ‘Potatoes Made Easy’. We laughed when she opened it and we were still laughing about it a couple of weeks before she died

**very possibly would have had a partial meltdown if life had been 100% excellent, to be fair. Brass bands+carols=tears, no?

***Somehow impossible not to capitalise

****It will not go out of fashion for as long as paper string is available and I have breath in my body

*****very much my love language