The retreat

 See, here’s the thing; I hate Christmas, with a passion that you could hardly imagine. And I know that puzzles a few people, because Christmas is the best time of year, surely? Happy, happy, family together, presents, good food and drink, what’s not to love? So this is another oversharing post, so for the love of god, just quickly move on!

We went to the Royal Marsden on the 18th of December. The weather was awful; snow, ice, the works. We waited for hours in the waiting area, then to a smaller one, to chairs outside a door, then into the empty consultation room, then finally the consultant and his nurse, who we both knew well came in. And we knew from their expressions that it wasn’t good. We were told that the latest trial drugs had failed, and there was nothing else they could do. We asked the inevitable and obvious question, and they said they didn’t know - weeks to months. So we went home, in silence, in the sleet and snow. Cars were parked anywhere they could, and one was parked in front of my drive. The pavement was sheer ice and I had to ask my neighbour to help me get Jill home.

So this is what that Christmas was like, for me. Imagine buying books for someone knowing they won’t live long enough to read them. Or the Spike (Buffy) calendar that she’d never see most of the pictures for. Or buying food I knew she wouldn’t be able to eat, or even taste. Having to decide on cooking a normal Christmas dinner which would hardly be eaten, or something very small, which would simply highlight how wrong things were. Or having conversations about science fiction conventions she wouldn’t attend. And of course Christmas is about looking back at the past, but this time it would be for the last time. And knowing that when you looked back in a years time, you’d remember it as the second worst day of your life. And knowing, with sheer brain curdling panic that the two worst days of your entire life were to come. Then going back to be with her, a pasted smile on my face, casual and relaxed.

And opening presents - the books for her she would never read, and the books for me that we would never be able to discuss. Jill bought me a back scratcher, because she knew how much I loved having my back scratched and knew she wouldn’t be there to do it anymore. And the strength of will it took both of us to keep pretending, in an effort to comfort the other one. Because what the fuck else could we do? It would have upset Jill terribly if I broke down, so that was never going to happen. So I did what I always do, which is to take all the emotions and drop them in a mental locker and throw away the key. I had no choice. At all. Unfortunately that only works for so long.

And you’re stuck indoors because of the weather, and all the baubles mocking their shiny, festive joyfulness back at us. And it was really hot… I know I like the heat, but Jill was terribly cold. I discovered for the first time, what it was like to keep a secret from my soulmate, and wisest confidant. We independently made the choice not to talk about wills, finance, my future, because we simply didn’t and couldn’t acknowledge the truth.

So Christmas Day took place in that atmosphere. Oh, with the added thought of “that was the last Christmas stocking she’ll open, or the last roast potato she’ll ever eat?” And nothing matters around us at all. I’m sure there was television on, but both of us were lost in thought. And the presents, sitting in mute judgement on the ridiculous lie we were telling each other. And the realisation I would never wrap another Christmas present for her hit me with such force it was almost physically painful.

And you look at the clock. You are desperate for it to click across into the next day to get this awful fucking charade of a day gone, while trying to slow the seconds down because this was the Last Christmas Day. It was going to be the last everything. There were things we weren’t sure of - we didn’t know if it was weeks or months, never realising it would be days. But we did know it was the last Christmas.

Everyone was so happy around us - and why shouldn’t they be, it was Christmas after all. If I could have murdered someone to keep her alive I’d have done it, no seconds hesitation. But I couldn’t. And I had made a promise to this amazing, amazing person that I would do everything I could to keep her safe and happy. And I’d failed, spectacularly. And don’t even go down the route of “there was nothing you could have done”, because there should have been. I should have insisted she went to the doctors when she had stomach pains. I should have just taken her. But I didn’t.

So yeah, Christmas. It’s a time of deep, deep grief. It’s a time of misery and despair, of hopelessness, of desperation, of sheer unadulterated panic. And that’s it. End of. The best way through it is to be aware of it for as little as possible. If I was a drinker I’d just get blind drunk and sleep through it. Don’t really watch much tv because I simply don’t need constant reminders that it’s Christmas. It’s best that it’s a simple, normal day.

“But it never is, is it Phil?”

“No Phil, it’s never a simple, normal day.”

And I’d really like to go back to happier times, remembering nicer Christmases. But in order to do that, Imma gonna have to open that box of memories, and that’s fuck off scary. You remember that scene at the end of the first Indiana Jones? When they opened the box and this whirling whatever it was screamed and whirled around the cave, melting all the Nazi soldiers faces and bodies? That’s just what it’s going to be like when I do that. And hey, here’s that bridge I said I’d cross when I got to it!

So that’s why I don’t like Christmas. Thank god it’s done for another year.

This retreat *really* has to work. I deleted the last version of this, I’ve done a toned down version. Fuck it, just hit post, you moron!