Christmas...finding 1000 more ways to miss him
It’s Christmas time…where it’s meant to be magical, wholesome, lovely and fun, but we can all admit the busyness of life, the pressure to make it magical, the forced social interactions can all make it incredibly anxiety inducing and exhausting, let alone the grief or loss factor that can be experienced by (probably) the majority in a range of different ways and reasons.
A wonderful page I follow - @afterevalyn, from a loss mum who lost her daughter on the 8th November 2016 to stillbirth posted this quote “Every Christmas, I find a million more ways to miss you” and it couldn’t be more true. This time of year elicits a time of reflection and gratitude, which can make this such a prickly time of the year for a griever. I’ve posted a couple of great quotes and meme’s around this topic in the last few days, I sometimes think to myself - oh everyone knows this or sees this stuff, there’s no point in reposting or sharing. But, I must remember so many don’t, my algorithm is flooded with grief, trauma and mental health stuff because I engage with it so much (don’t worry, there’s plenty of ridiculous, funny stuff in there, I’m not that serious), many find this topic too difficult even if they’ve been through it so they do not engage with it, but so many have not been through a significant loss and to take a moment to learn, empathise, stop and think, surely is a good thing? Plus, a simple quote or even silly meme can help us feel seen and acknowledged. And in terms of trying to heal from grief, this can go an exceptionally long way (research and experience tells us this).
It’s that time of year also for us that we come up to all of Herbert’s really shitty dates, the date of my last scan (21st Dec) when everything was fine, to our first Christmas ever away at the beach being blissfully happy, to the 5th January when it was the beginning of the end where a routine appointment turned our world upside down because there was something wrong with his brain. James and I look back at photos before Herb died and can see this happiness/naivety in our eyes. Photos since we can see a sadness, a deep tiredness in our eyes. Perhaps it’s just us who see it/feel it, but my other loss Mum friends say the same, our smiles are never quite as big as they ever were before our children died.
Year 2 to be honest feels just as shit, somewhat easier to carry, different because our third and delightful baby girl is here, but as I’ve said before, that comes with a range of emotions, mostly joy but there’s always a tinge of guilt - she’s here because Herb is not. As I wrap gifts for Claude, for Rani, for James I desperately wish to be wrapping presents for him. I sign his name on gifts from him as though he would be here to them all. I hang a star on the tree with his name amongst his siblings with sadness. What would he be in to? He’d be almost 2, I imagine what he’d look like, how naughty he’d be, what food would he like. These secondary losses really never end, and they can spring up unexpectedly and knock you for six. I gave to the ABC Giving Tree as ‘his’ gift, donating the amount I’d be spending on him, it just made me cry doing it, it hurt, the pain of wishing he was here instead. I’d thought of doing what some other loss Mum’s do and getting an age appropriate gift to donate to match the age they would be, but even thinking about shopping for such a gift was like attempting to touch a hot plate - I recoil immediately.
You know what’s really shit? When we’re having a good time, a nice moment, say out for a meal (and there’s no device and we’re having a good conversation) or going to do something fun as a family, I find I’ll burst in to tears or just feel a wave of absolute sadness that he isn’t here to enjoy this, to be part of our family, to give him joy. I’m also finding that more and more with Rani, in particular the middle of the night feeds, in-between changing boobs I’ll change her, she’ll wake a little more and give me the loveliest smiles, I’ll kiss her neck and blow some raspberries and she gives me the sweetest little giggles. I even go to sleep looking forward to this little moment in our feeds, but in those moments of pure happiness for us both, there’s that sadness, holding the light and the dark all at once, that I could never do this for him, that he didn’t get to grow and smile. It makes my heart so heavy.
There can be sooooo many reasons people feel grief or loss at this time of the year; loved ones who have passed - partners, siblings, parents, grandparents, friends, children, pets, places even - like old family homes, perhaps people are trying to start a family and it hasn’t happened yet, trying for subsequent children, wishing for that companion to share their life with, a loss of family connection, a loss of the ideal family, feeling like a failure or you haven’t achieved much this year, I used to think I was really grinchy because of being in the hospo industry but I really think that our awareness and emotional intelligence as a general society has increased and we’re all beginning to think - Christmas is actually f**ked. Ha. Perhaps controversial, but I’d be really happy to opt out of it. Speaking with a friend, I think us Millenials might start a movement in years to come where we just opt out of Christmas, perhaps occasionally for a break. (If you haven’t already - listen to the Imperfect’s Podcast on this topic [Merry-Not-Enoughmas] it’s an excellent, excellent listen.)
I feel guilt I don’t have the ability or desire to make it really magical for Claude (and soon Rani when she’s old enough) but we just try and spend time together as a family, spend time with those that fill our cup, give the kids some lovely gifts and make memories of just being together with out pressure or expectation.
The grief is bubbling away, like a simmering pot right now, more than it has for a while, it’ll probably boil over, I guess I expect it.
To those missing someone, something, an ideal, a place you hoped to be in your life, I hope the next few days are as gentle as they can possibly be.
