My Christmas Day

We’d arranged to pop over to visit my mother, and then my elder daughter to drop off presents so we got up early and my youngest opened her presents as I cooked breakfast. She brought each one into the kitchen so I could admire it. After breakfast, I opened mine. I wanted Al to be there. I wanted to feel slightly irritated that he had yet again made little/no effort to contribute to the festivities. He couldn’t of course. We followed the plan. Go to Mum’s, then daughter’s, then brother’s for lunch. Then home in time for doom and gloom on Eastenders followed by The Royle Family Christmas Special to lighten the mood. This programme juxtaposes laugh-out-loud gags with gentler, tender moments. Beautifully observed comedy. Only this year, much of the pathos focused on a recently bereaved man. Sod’s Law!

This was my second Christmas Day without Al. The last Christmas Day I spent with him was pretty traditional – for us at any rate. A few years earlier, I’d taken a leaf out of a friend’s book and had a Chinese delivered. I’d done no cooking so had spent the day in the living room with the kids as they opened their pressies. We’d played a game or two before they each took their goodies off to their respective rooms and I’d been treated to the ‘joyous’ sound of three different types of music all played at full blast as I thanked my lucky stars that the next door neighbours always spent the day at their parents’ house. Later, I’d dish up the food, feeling relaxed and slightly smug at the thought of so little washing up to do. It was a good habit to acquire. The one year I reverted back to turkey with all the trimmings, I was informed that it was better with the Chinese because I was there for them – and anyway it tasted better. Cheek!

As I’ve been a single Mum for several years, my Christmas presents were, to say the least, modest. My youngest would invariably create something made from cotton wool, and my eldest would give me chocolates, candles, or something for the bath. Al was not really into presents – well not into buying them. He usually added his name to the gift produced by his little sister and I learned to grit my teeth and smile as I thanked them both and whispered to my youngest that she had done a marvellous job.

The last year he was with us, he bought me two boxes of chocolate liqueurs. He made little effort to conceal the fact that he’d wolfed down the contents of one box as he wrapped the other on Christmas Eve. It was easy to see what had happened as the empty box wouldn’t fit in the bathroom bin so he just left it balanced on top. No shame! Typical Al!

The following day he informed me that he was making breakfast. This was a first for him and he set about it with gusto. I got the works – a full English including sausages that were still pink in the middle. I smiled, ate, and hoped I’d be lucky enough to avoid tapeworms and Salmonella – thankfully, I was. After breakfast, he presented me with my present and made noises about me being rather full after breakfast so not being able to fit many in. I suspect that was related to guilt re the snaffled box of chocs but I didn’t comment. Later he put on his newest clothes and paraded for me telling me that I was lucky to have a son as gorgeous as him. I teased him about his vanity and pretended to be indifferent but he knew he was a bit of a looker – and he knew I was proud to have such a beautiful boy. We joked with each other with me telling him that he would be better looking if his head weren’t so incredibly swollen and he weren’t so arrogant. - and anyway, he was due to get acne any day now. He thought that was hilarious – “Dream on Mum” - and assured me that he wasn’t planning it because he’d inherited my good skin and not his dad’s so he knew he was pretty safe. Typical Al – always a ready answer (with a compliment slipped in for good measure). I miss him so much.

Last year, my sister-in-law invited us to her place for Christmas lunch. The girls enjoyed the day spent with their cousins – but for me it was just an incredibly long day where no one said my boy’s name. They talked of others who were off doing other things but Al wasn’t mentioned once. It was sheer torture. I felt as if he were some dirty little secret we mustn’t mention. My Victim Impact Statement contained a paragraph relating to this issue

“I was unable to spend the day at home last Christmas and as I now contemplate another one without my son, I again dread the thought of feeling obliged to present a happy Christmassy persona. I know that I must do this for the sake of my daughters, but all I yearn for is someone/anyone to take the trouble, however briefly, to acknowledge that my boy existed.”

I made copies available to family and I know that it was read so I can only assume that this paragraph was forgotten because today I spent the whole day waiting for someone to say his name. It never happened.

Admittedly, I must be ‘improving’ as it was easier than last year to paint that smile on my face. My little great niece was a very welcome distraction and I busied myself with lending a hand with transporting food to the table, clearing it afterwards, and doing some washing up. It was easier to wash up with my back to others as I could cry and no one saw. I didn’t feel that I had the right to spoil their Christmas. It wasn’t their son who died so why introduce morbid musings to spoil their day. It’s just that I miss him so desperately and no one seems to even notice that he was ever here in the first place, let alone that he is no longer here.

After opening her gifts this morning, my youngest said, “This is a good Christmas Mum – I got everything I wanted.” She had. I’d made sure that I asked her dad which of the books he’d bought that were on her wish list. Then I got the ones he hadn’t so that she didn’t miss out. I produced the long coveted, designer label clutch bag – not exactly my choice of chavvy paraphernalia, but it was what she wanted. And the decent skin care products so that she wouldn’t be smothering her face with cheap crap, which was more likely to create skin problems. Her 14-year-old Christmas was good. On the drive to my Mum’s, Band Aid was playing on the radio. We discussed how other children suffer and go without and she talked of how fortunate she is to have the advantages she has. And again she talked about how lucky she was to get everything she wanted for Christmas.

Yet all I could think was that I couldn’t have the only thing I wanted more than anything else in the World. But next to the impossible, having him back, what I really needed was for someone to acknowledge his absence – but no one did. I waited all day but not one person did – not his sisters nor his grandmother, not his Uncle or Aunts nor his cousins, not anyone at all - and it hurts that it simply never occurred to any of them to just notice that he was missing.

I don’t want them to suffer as I do. I don’t want them to have the image of his body, slowly rotting in his coffin, just pop into their minds as it does into mine. I don’t want them to feel an agonising yearning to stroke his face, to take pride in his achievements, and to spend time with his children. I just want them to acknowledge my loss. I NEED them to acknowledge my loss. I don’t see why it should all be so mundane and normal for everyone - because he is gone. Don’t they get it at all? My boy – my beautiful, arrogant, funny, witty boy is gone and he is never coming back. And I hate the way the World hasn’t even noticed.

 I don’t see why the World should carry on turning. Actually I do see why it should be that way – I just don’t want it to be that way. I read Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’, I hear the lines reciting in my mind and every single one resonates so incredibly strongly. How can something so terrible, and so hackneyed - so bloody clichéd – be so apt?

Today is Christmas Day and I made it good for my daughter but it was shit for me. I don’t expect, or even hope for a good Christmas – I just wish I could have one that’s a bit easier. I just want a day when I can relax and not ache, inside and out, for my son.