Christmas

I can’t abide Christmas. Apart from my eldest's second Christmas, when I went ridiculously over the top, I was never one for masses of presents anyway. This year, considering I have one less child on which to spend, my total ‘splurge’ is only slightly lower than previous years. It's never really increased much anyway and will probably be less than £200 for everything. I guess that sums up my feelings about Christmas. Bah Humbug!

I used to enjoy the children’s excitement – and I hammed up the whole Father Christmas thing for their benefit. When my eldest realised he wasn’t real, she agreed with me that it was a lovely thing for children to believe and told me that she would carry on believing – just for that year. And she did. On Christmas Eve, she went to bed having left a mince pie and a glass of milk for Father Christmas (we never left sherry as he was driving - that was a message I wanted to get across from the start) and a carrot for Rudolph. She talked about what she and Al could expect and got Al all hyped-up – he was just five at the time and was a nightmare to get to sleep that night. On waking the following morning, she called out, “Has he been?” and she and Al dashed downstairs to find out.

Memories like that are good. I think that was the year he got his Buzz Lightyear. It was the must have toy that year. As a general rule, I made a point of avoiding those fads but Al was Toy Story mad. He could recite huge swathes of the film and I knew I wanted to get him that toy and no other. He hadn’t asked for it – he used to ask for chocolate everything, to go flying with The Snowman whilst singing, 'Walking in the air', for his big sister to stop bossing him about, for the ice cream van to come on Christmas Day, and all kinds of other odd things - but I knew Buzz would give him so much pleasure. It took some doing to get it. The shops had all sold out but my mother in law managed to get one at a Disney Store thirty miles from her place on the South Coast and then posted it up to me in the North-West. When he opened it, the look on his face was priceless. He was amazed. “Mum, Fahzer Chwistmas (the ‘th’ sound was pronounced as a z for a long time ... and he had a definite Jonathon Ross ‘r’ going on for a while too) is amazing. Look. LOOK! He gave me a Buzz Lightyear.” It was his pride and joy and gave him hours of fun.

I remember feeling quite sad when he threw it out a few years later. It was clear it had been played with a lot – I’d had to fix the visor and one arm more times than I could remember - but he’d outgrown it and his interests had moved onto some electronic hand held games console by then. I just saw his childhood going in the bin. He laughed at me and told me not to be so daft. I wish I’d kept it but then I’m not a hoarder either. I love a good spring clear out and am ruthless so it wouldn’t have been here even if I had rescued it then.

 Anyway ... Christmas. I’m crap at it – really I am. I can’t be messed with spending hours in the kitchen. For a few years, we’ve actually had a Chinese meal instead. I get a huge banquet delivered from a local Chinese take-away for far less than it costs to produce the traditional turkey and trimmings and I get to spend the day in the living room with the kids. No food preparation and very little washing up. I see them unwrap their pressies, get them to play at least one board game before they all disappear to store their goodies in their rooms, and generally enjoy the peace and goodwill of the day. Sorted!

Hmm I’m talking in the present tense – as if that’s what still happens. Of course it doesn’t. My son is dead and my eldest daughter lives elsewhere and, depending on her mood, may or may not, join us on the day.

Last year, my sister in law invited us to her place for Christmas lunch. I was grateful. The thought of spending the day at home was just too painful. My youngest and I swapped gifts in the morning, made the call to the grandparents living in the South, took a call from my ex-hubby, paid a visit to my mother, collected my eldest and took ourselves off to my brother’s for lunch. It was civilised. Lunch was traditional which was a nice change – I needed it to be different from our usual Chinese habit so that was good. Everyone was happy and full of Christmas spirit.

Of course no one, not a single soul, said Al’s name. Not one of them. Now I will never know whether they had simply forgotten he ever existed – it was a fun day – lots going on so that I guess that would be understandable. Or perhaps they were worried that by mentioning his name, they’d upset me in some way. Obviously, I wouldn’t be thinking of him unless they raised the subject. I mean, the fact that my boy had died just months earlier would have slipped my mind.  Obviously I'd have forgotten all about that nasty business by now.It would be cruel, wouldn’t it, to make any reference to him.

Except I spent the day yearning for someone/anyone to just say his name, or to ask me how I was coping. Just someone to acknowledge my grief. I couldn’t say anything. I had no right. I was in someone else’s house, it was their Christmas Day, and I had no right to spoil it by selfishly pointing out that someone was missing. So I kept my mouth shut.

Instead I ate a lot. Not at the table because, following some surgery a few months earlier which had left a few complications, I was still struggling to eat large amounts at one sitting. But I picked at food all day. It was as if I was forcing down all my feelings with food. The more I ate, the sicker I felt. The sicker I felt, the easier it was to cope with my unacknowledged grief. I vomited three times that day. I was actually overeating to the point of vomiting. I managed to slip to the upstairs loo so that no one could hear me and be concerned. My anger was affecting me in a most unhelpful way. “If they can’t be bothered to ask how I am, I don’t want any faux concern about me being ill.” It’s only just hit me that this was Bulimia. For one day, I had Bulimia! OK I wasn’t 'forcing' myself to purge what I’d eaten - I didn't need to - I was eating so much, my body simply couldn’t cope. This was self-harm. It was easier to cope with eating to the point of pain and nausea and then vomiting, than it was to cope with my anger and hurt at the absence of any reference to my boy.

As I’d been poorly for such a long time, a couple of people commented on my snacking and said it was nice to see I’d got my appetite back. I remember joking that I’d have to keep my eye on it or I’d be piling on the pounds whilst at the same time, gripping the chair tightly to help me cope with the pain, and breathing - breathing really deeply so that I wouldn’t throw up in front of eveyone.

 I wanted to scream, “His name was Al. Why can’t you just say his name?” but no one did. I don’t doubt that my sister-in-law and eldest niece were aware of how I was feeling and were trying to do things to distract me. They avoided the subject for all the right reasons. I don’t bear them any animosity for their line of reasoning. It wasn’t helpful for me but it was done with the best of intentions. However, I don’t believe my brother, or the other adults in the house that day, even considered my loss at all. Bearing in mind that it was highly unusual for us to be there on Christmas Day, it was surely obvious why we were there. Yet no one acknowledged it. A massive elephant in the room – some pretended not to see it but others appeared to be blissfully unaware. My brother carried my boy’s coffin but, it would appear, failed to notice his absence on Christmas Day – go figure. How could they be so cruel?

The girls had a nice day though – and for me, that made it worth it. What would have changed the whole tone of the day for me, and therefore made it almost pleasureable would have been for someone to propose a toast to my lad, or for someone to simply remember him. A small thing - yet so incredibly massive. But then, maybe that would have changed the whole tone of the day for them in a way which was just too negative.

This year, I’m not sure what the day will bring. No invitation has been extended so it looks as if it’ll be a very quiet day with just my youngest and me. Possibly with my eldest joining us - you never know. That will only happen if I drive over there on the day, and ask her to join us – and if she’s in the right frame of mind, she might.

The house will be quiet – depressingly so. Al was the noisy one; the one with the too loud music – Eminem for pity’s sake. He liked rapping. He thought he was good at it. I can’t stand rap so I’ve no idea whether he was. He liked dancing – now he was a good dancer. I once told him that if he could dance, he’d be able to charm any girl. That was all the incentive he needed. Only his dancing didn’t require a partner – it was more of a solo performance designed to impress. Christmas Day, as with many other days, would always bring a load of thumping from his bedroom – a combination of the (too loud) base beat and his feet thumping on the bedroom floor. It feels ironic that now, and only now, after years of telling him to “turn that bloody racket down”, I miss it so much. I'd give anything to be able to hear those size 10 feet stomping on the bedroom floor.

Anyway, Christmas Day this year... We have no plans. I feel that I’m waiting for something to happen. I don’t want to ask in case they’ve already decided to have just them and theirs for the day. It’s a funny thing really – I guess it’s to be expected that someone would tell you if you were invited for the day. However, I can hardly expect them to say, “By the way, we won’t be inviting you for Christmas Day this year.” You don't tell someone that you won't be inviting them. And so I wait.

Maybe I didn’t lay on a good enough performance last year. Maybe they think I’m sorted and the duty is done. After all, it’s been 18 months so I should be over it by now. I don’t want them to feel guilt-tripped into issuing an invitation but I hate the idea of being stuck at home for a too quiet, lonely Christmas which I spend trying to find, pretty unsuccessfully I imagine, ways of keeping my youngest jolly and happy.

Given the choice between spending the day at home in a too quiet house, and spending the day in a bustling house where, painful as it may be, my grief is ignored and unacknowledged, I’ll take the latter.

God that’s really shit isn’t it. I really hate Christmas.