I'll Be Home For Christmas

In many ways, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.

I'm not immune to the magic of Christmas. To the way Princes Street gardens glows with the lights and bustle of the Christmas market that takes over what was once a reasonably large loch every year.
To the excitement of children as they wait for Santa to come. To the stress of hurried shoppers as they try and find the perfect gift for the perfect person.

For some of December, I embrace it.

I love the challenge of finding presents that perfectly relate to whoever I'm buying them for and I love seeing twinkling lights and fir trees everywhere.

But as it gets closer to Christmas Day, I tend to retreat into a little bubble of just me.
I need to be alone and left to my own devices as much as possible.

It wasn't always this way.

Growing up, Christmas was the most magical experience.
Nanny and I would put our Christmas tree up in either the hall or the front room (the front room had an amazing bay window that was the perfect place for our Christmas tree) and we'd spend a couple of hours together decorating it.

I stopped spending Christmas at my mum's, officially, when I was about ten years old.
Before that I'd alternate but, seeing as I'd moved in with nanny the year before, I decided to stay at home for each Christmas after that.

And I loved it.

We'd get up early, later as I got older, and we'd go through to the living room and I'd open my presents from Santa while nanny sat with a cup of tea on the couch. Our dog and later our cat, would often be at her feet.

A few hours later, mum and Jordana would come over with more presents and we'd open them, nanny collecting the wrapping paper to put into a bag as we did so.

After that, we'd have a Christmas dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, gravy, vegetables and stuffing.

When Jordana and mum had left, nanny and I would sit in our living room and watch Christmas TV with hot chocolates.

It was perfect.

Low key and quiet and ours.

When she died, my version of Christmas died with her.

That first Christmas, in 2016, I was so wrapped up in my own heartbreak that I don't even remember it.
The only bit I do remember is crying so much.
When asked about that time, my mum told me it was like I was 'in a trance' and I now compare it to the Adam Sandler film Click when he puts himself on autopilot to skip through parts of his life.
I was there but I don't remember it and I wasn't 'me'.

For Christmas 2017, I decided to take some control as there was no way I was letting myself spend another Christmas crying the whole time.
I booked flights to and from Spain and decided to spend it with my auntie.
It was an exciting holiday.
We got into a car crash (apparently, the Spanish aren't the best at driving in fog) and I spend most of my week there dealing with a headache but my auntie tried hard to make it Christmassy and we had a delicious yule log type thing for dessert.

It was less painful but it also just proved that distraction only works for a small amount of time.

In 2018, I was back at my mum's and it was nice.
We baked together, there was family drama and I got home for about eightish.

This Christmas, I feel odd.

I have a boyfriend for the first time ever (wow, I really sound like Bridget Jones right now...) who is away skiing in the French Alps so I can hide my pain from him, which is good.
I have incredible friends, less than last year but they're extremely important.
My relationship with my mother has never been better.
I'm jobless but I have opportunities coming up in the new year which are exciting.

In general, everything has changed and nothing is the same.

Except for my feelings about Christmas.

At a time of year when everyone is heading home for the holidays or going to spend time with family, I miss my home more than ever.

I can't go home. I can't curl up on my couch with nanny, our pets at our feet.

The family I grew up with no longer exists and while our homes are still there, someone else lives in them now, making memories of their own.

I know how depressing that sounds but it's true.

Nothing I've said isn't a fact.

When nanny died, my family died with her.

As much as I love mum and the small family I do have left, nothing will ever be me and nanny and our Christmas traditions.

What I did like this year was making some new ones.

My boyfriend and I made a Christmas dinner which included chicken (from my childhood) and prawn cocktail (something from his as he would be having a fancy dinner in the French Alps for Christmas).
We exchanged presents and had hot chocolate and I was extremely grateful for those memories.
I hope we can do the same next year.

But grief is a funny thing. It creeps up on you, even when you've been expecting it.

This year, I'm taking advantage of my lack of a job and enjoying my time alone.
If I can't be with nanny, I'd rather deal with my grief privately and in my own way.

Of course, I'll head over to mum's on Christmas Day and I'll be back before the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special.

But until then, instead of being wrapped up in family and traditions, I'll be relaxing on my own and acting as if Christmas isn't happening at all.

I know how depressing this sounds but it's just what Christmas has become for me and that's okay.

In a few years, I might have a fiancé or a husband or children to spend it with but for now I'm okay dealing with it in my own way.

Christmas is hard for so many people and this is my way of coping.

I hope anyone else missing a family member this season is okay.

I truly believe that one day, 'I'll be home for Christmas' will truly mean I'm going home and to somewhere I feel safe and happy and loved.

Grief and life changing events take time and I'm still young so I'm okay with waiting a little while.

Who knows where I'll be next year?

Hopefully, somewhere magical and a little less sad.

Jessica

Isla

Two weeks ago today, on Thursday 18th August, my grandmother passed away.
It was peaceful and quiet and she wasn't in pain.
She finally got to go home to her husband.
After twenty years apart, I'm sure she was happy to see him.

I walked into the room complaining about how a nurse had mistaken me for a mother of two blonde children, of course I was doing that, but my aunt told me once I'd stopped talking.
Three words and they changed everything.
'Nanny's passed away.'

My auntie Sandra (nanny's sister) was closest to me. She told me to kiss her on the cheek but I couldn't. I just shook my head and put my hand over my mouth and cried.
It didn't last long. I cried for less than a minute.
When I had composed myself, I moved closer to nanny and kissed her forehead before sighing with relief.
Her suffering was over, finally.

I'd said my official 'Goodbye' to her the day before.
She was mostly out of it thanks to the cocktail of drugs they'd put her on to take away any pain in her last few days but she was, apparently, able to hear things.
Nanny told me a hundred times over that she wanted me to find a good man, marry him and have kids.
That's all she ever wanted for me.
I know her views were old fashioned but those were the things in her life that gave her the most happiness and she wanted that for me too.
She loved being married. She loved her husband and raising her children and, then, raising me.
I might not be ready for marriage and kids yet but I know that, when I do, she'll be watching over us all.
I promised her I'd find him and that I'd love him forever - the same way she loved my granddad.
I promised I'd tell our kids all about the strong, kind, wonderful woman who raised me.
She can't truly die until all of our stories about her are finished being told.
With that knowledge, I know it will be a long time before she's really gone forever.

I spent as much time with her as possible when I was younger. Every weekend, every weekday after school... If anyone was ever wondering where I was, you could be sure it was with her.
She was my first best friend, until I met Jane in 2000, and she was my hero.
We had so many traditions, nanny and I...
My favourite was always our trip to Jenners at Christmas. We'd go look at all the toys downstairs and then we'd go see the giant Christmas tree.
To a five year old, there wasn't anything more magical than that.
She loved Christmas. Every year, our house would be sparkling from all the different decorations. She would cook Christmas dinner and I would be amazed at how one person can make a season so magical and perfect.
She also gave me a belief in fairies.
Every year, at Christmas, I would wake up in the morning of Christmas Eve and find a beautiful princess dress hanging on the door next to mine. Nanny always told me the fairies had left it for me and I believed her with everything I had.
Not all of our traditions were at Christmas though.
Another of my favourites is that, whenever I was ill or off from school, she would make 'Make You Well Soup' - that was my childish name for it (I was probably only about three when I started calling it that). Even when I got sent home from school, my mum would drop me off with nanny and she'd have my pajamas wrapped around a hot water bottle in my bed and some soup ready for me.
She even got me a dog - Benji.
Technically, we had Annie first but she had to be re-homed as she was a Greyhound and too much for my gran to handle.
Benji was perfect. He was tiny and adorable and perfect when we first got him.
It was love at first sight with us.
I'm so grateful we got to grow up together because he was the greatest, silliest, most stupidly sweet dog anyone could ever have had.
But, unfortunately, he had to get re-homed too when my gran got even more unwell.
After that, we got Oscar.
I've said a million and one things about him so I don't think I need to expand on that but he was just as special as Benji.

The last thing I ever said to her, even a week on when I saw her in the funeral home (she looked nothing like herself. It was horrible), was 'Goodnight, nanny. I'll see you soon. I love you'
When I was younger, I always used to make her say those three words before I went to sleep.
I know it's morbid but, just in case anything ever happened, I wanted to make sure those were our final words to each other.

Reality isn't always that kind though. I can't remember her last words to me.
I know the jist of them but I don't know them exactly.
She was having a good day, her last good day before she died, and I was going on a work night out. I walked out the door and she called me back in. So I went inside and she was warning me to be careful as people can put things in your drink, etcetera. I laughed and nodded and reminded her that I'm a big girl.
After that, it's hazy.

The day before she died, I told her not to keep holding on for me. I'd be fine. She could let go now.
Not even 24 hours to that conversation and she was gone.

These last two weeks have been really strange.
I haven't cried much. I don't know why, especially seeing as I barely stopped crying to breathe after Oscar died.
Nanny was the strongest women I've ever known.
Maybe she's watching over me and helping me to be strong too.

I started college this week and I'm heading to St Andrews tomorrow for a new adventure.
Nanny's gone and, while it breaks my heart that she wont ever get to meet the man I marry or our kids, I know she'll be with us regardless.
It's all she wanted for me and I'll get it eventually.
So, when I do, she'll become my family's own, personal Guardian Angel.
If you believe in those sorts of things.
I'm not sure if I do or not but it's a nice thought.

I miss her so much but I'm so glad she's not in pain anymore.

Goodnight, nanny. I love you.
Jezebel
xoxo

Five Stages, Four Weeks, Three Moments

It's strange how quickly time passes.
One moment, you're a child getting a hot water bottle and soup when you're sick and the next... You're an adult.

It's felt a bit like I'm watching my life from the sidelines, recently.
Oscar died four weeks ago today and it's three days until the fifth which will be the official '1 Month Anniversary'.
It's odd because I don't normally have 'out of body experiences' but it's been a long few months.
Oscar dying has affected me more than I could ever have known and I cry now. Randomly. At least twice a week.
I'm a terrible over-thinker and anything could make me cry.
Thinking about him for two long, hearing a bell that sounds like his, the fact that his food bowl now holds my keys...

They say there are five stages of grief. I kinda figured they'd come in order and that, once I hit acceptance, I'd be okay again. That doesn't really happen.
My experience has been a learning curve.

Denial: I've never really been good with denial. For some reason, my brain just won't let me deny the unfortunate facts. The only times I've had moments of it has been whenever I think I hear him. Even if I'm seconds from falling asleep, I'll get out of bed and go to check - just in case.
He's never there but I have to make sure.
I always return to bed disappointed.

Anger: Again, this isn't a major stage for me. I'm not an angry person because I hate the feeling I have when I'm angry, It's a wasted emotion. It doesn't help you get better. It just helps you be mad. If that makes sense.
I have had moments where I'm mad/sad that he's gone. I just don't get it. I don't understand why he's gone when there were so many things we had to do together, so many years I needed to be with him. It doesn't make sense.

Bargaining: The amount of times I've begged God to swap my sister or myself for Oscar is embarrassing... I don't mean it in a nasty way. I just want him home. I want my baby back. He never comes though and God never answers. If God hears me, he's not replying.

Depression: Sadly, this stage is the one I have the most experience with. I suffered with depression after I stopped being friends with two of my best friends back in 2011 and it's never gone away entirely. The only difference now is that it's not as powerful. I'm coping better.
Sadly, it does mean that these last four weeks have been a really difficult struggle.
There are times when I just don't want to be here because Oscar's in heaven and he's 'waiting for me'. It comes and goes like the tide but it's not really gotten any easier. Like I thought it would. I have hope though.

Acceptance: Strangely enough, I do accept that he's gone. I accept he's not coming back.
I just wish he was. I want to hold him and love him and bug him constantly. Coming home isn't as fun lately. I don't rush, I don't get excited. I used to call his name whenever I'd come home and he'd rarely respond but coming home to him made every hardship I had that day or that week seem a little easier to handle.

There's nothing I don't miss about Oscar. Nothing. I don't expect that to ever go away.
I just wish I had more videos of him. I snapchatted him constantly but that's not the same.
I burst into tears last week because I couldn't remember the way his meow sounded.

The three main moments, mentioned in the title, have been:
The day after he died, the one-week anniversary and the day we brought his ashes home.
Each of those days were significant because they were moments I truly realized he was gone. The day we brought him home was almost as hard as the day he died. I had him, in my arms, in a box. A box. A little, round, green box with his name on it.
I'll never forget that day. I collected him and burst into tears. When I got home, I took him out and just held him while I talked to my mum for about an hour. I didn't let him go for one second.
He sleeps on my bed now, with his collar beside him.

I have amazing friends though. The girl I met at college has listened to every part of this journey and never judged me - even when I've said ridiculous things. I love her for that.
And my best friend from school? She messages me every single day to make sure I'm okay.
I have other friends who have sent their condolences and shared experiences and it does help.

I just have to accept that this chapter of my life is going to be the hardest but it will get easier, with time.

Until it does, I'm going to keep being that weird girl who carries her dead cat's collar around wherever she goes but I'm okay with that.

Let's just hope June is better.

Jessica
xoxo