Mother of all Lists — Grief At Christmas

Grief At Christmas

Christmas Day in 1995 – Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’ was number 1 in the charts, POGS were the best-selling toy that year and everyone tuned into Noel’s House Party at Crinkley Bottom while tucking into the tin (actual metal tin) of Quality Street chocolates.
Christmas Day in 1995 for me, I was eleven years old. It consisted of opening presents in a quiet and dimly lit hospital room. My Mum was lying on the bed trying her best to be happy but really struggling. I was oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. The reality was, that after years fighting a battle with a rare cancer, my Mum was dying.
I remember desperately wanting the Sylvanian Family windmill and my Dad saying “This is probably the last year you’ll want toys for Christmas, you’ll be in secondary school next year”. But I had made my mind up; that badger family needed an upgrade.
My Mum died in those weird days between Christmas and New Year. I don’t remember very much about that time, apart from the day that she died. I was allowed to go into town shopping without any adults, for the first time ever. It seemed such a huge step. When we arrived home that afternoon, I sensed things were a little weird.
My Nan and Grandad were in our living room. They lived over 3 hours away in Stoke-on-Trent and a visit from them was a rare treat usually. My Dad asked me to come into the kitchen, sat me on his knee and told me that my Mum had died. My reaction was “are you joking?” and “Dad, I’ve never seen you cry before”.
Now as a parent myself my stomach churns at having to have such a conversation with my own child. What an utterly heart-breaking time both of my parents had been through.
To add to the bad news, it also turned out that the beloved toy windmill was missing vital pieces. It was the last one in the small toy shop in ourwest Wales town. I was given the cash instead.

So much growing up happened that Christmas; far too early and serious for any girl to have to deal with.
The funeral came around quickly. I felt it hard to express any emotion. I remember laughing to myself about the hat my Headmaster had on and found it very uncomfortable when he hugged me on the way out.
My Mum, Jane Worsdale, was such a strong woman. She was the perfect combination of overly caring / taking no shit. She made THE best chips. She used to lie with me every single night, tapping my back, until I fell asleep – often falling asleep herself and missing the soaps, so my Dad used to say.
Despite the terrible loss, I had such a lovely childhood in the Welsh countryside. I told my Dad that again and again when I was older. My parents were fab, I grew up being shown pictures by Impressionists artists and listening to Bob Dylan and The Beatles on repeat. We always had an always an open house policy to visitors.
I had dealt with the most devastating event, seeing my strong and loving Mum deteriorate in front of my eyes. But it didn’t feel that sad or even real, maybe because I was so young, or maybe they were just bloody good parents.
After that awful Christmas, the ones going forward were quite sad. I tried my best to cheer my Dad and two older brothers up but there was little joy in any of our hearts, just the memories of that horrible year and everyone missing the centre of our own universe.
During secondary school and until I was in my early twenties I completely stopped talking about my Mum. And this is what really haunts me now.
I didn’t know how to talk about her. I couldn’t tell my Dad how I felt, or what I remembered or even ask any questions. And he did try, every single day. But I had no words.
I didn’t even tell my new friends at school that my Mum had died. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed but I just didn’t like attention and never wanted that awkwardness.
There are no rules when it comes to grief – everybody deals with it differently, there is no right or wrong. I decided early on that silence was how I would survive those already tricky times of being a teenager and young woman without the support of my Mum.
And it worked for me for a really long time.
I loved school, was surrounded by great people, my Dad was an absolute superstar and he was my best friend. He bought me sanitary products for the first time, put me on the pill when I got my first boyfriend at 17, we’d sit and have pub lunches together and spend summer holidays watching the test match cricket while eating battenberg cake. I was so lucky.