Grief is an emotion like no other. It is unpredictable and ever-changing.
We sometimes speak about the five stages of grief as though it is a process that follows an orderly path.
Simply enter via the door marked ‘denial’ and exit a short time later into the warm, comforting room that houses the acceptance of your loss.
Anybody who has lost a loved one knows that the process is a little more complicated than that.
In those early days after the death of somebody you love dearly, you can sometimes veer through all the five stages of grief over the course of just a few hours.
Memories viewed from place of loss
My dad died in a car crash in 2015, aged 49.
I think about him a lot and most often around Christmas time. Celebrations and anniversaries have that effect.
At Christmas, we remember how our loved one celebrated the season. We think about their favourite Christmas movies, their festive tipple and whether they kept their paper crown on throughout the entirety of the Christmas meal.
These memories take on a different hue, when viewed from a place of loss and grief.
You can still laugh at funny anecdotes that centre your departed loved one. You can still feel glad that you got that time with them. But underneath it all, there is always that slightly hollow feeling. It’s a harsh place full of what-ifs and if-onlys.
It’s the antithesis of what we expect from Christmas, in all its brash and sparkly glory.
But it’s also entirely normal. And something that most of us carry with us throughout the festive season.
At the weekend, my nine-year-old daughter and I had a Christmas organising day.
I had presents to wrap and she had Christmas cards to write. This takes her an inordinately long time to complete because she likes to write a highly-specific compliment to every recipient.
To one teacher – who doesn’t even teach her anymore – she wrote: “You grow a great beard!’’
To friends: “You are as fast as a cheetah”; “You are great at bird noises”; “You are very flexible”; “You are extraordinary”.
‘My dad would have adored her’
While I wrapped gifts, we enjoyed a Christmas movie marathon.
We stayed in our pyjamas all day and grazed on cheese, crackers and chocolate shortbread.
It was really, truly, lovely.
There was nothing else I’d rather have been doing that day than spending that time with her, attending to Christmas chores and singing along to the Muppet’s Christmas Carol.
Then, apparently out of nowhere, the grief goblin arrived.
I thought of my dad, and how much he would have adored her if he’d have been given the chance to watch her grow.
This is one of the aspects of his untimely death that I try (and often fail) not to dwell on too much.
I know he would have been so impressed by her, and enthralled by all the intricacies of her personality.
In him, she would have had a constant source of admiration and care.
She gets that from so many other people in her life but nothing stings quite like the unfulfilled wondering of a what-if.
I distracted myself from that sudden sense of loss by talking to my daughter about her grandad, something I probably don’t do enough.
We spoke about how much he loved Christmas.
I told a few tales and then we moved on: back to the present and to the joyful certainty of the here and now.
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