I am standing in front of the rows of Christmas cards with a feeling of rising panic. I’m willing myself to select one as I inwardly list the reasons not to: too saccharine, too glittery, too crude. I fail and slope away, frustrated by my inability to engage in a task I usually enjoy. My frivolous reasons for discounting the cards mask the deeper and more painful one: this year I’ll have to address the card solely to Mum, as painful for her to receive as it is for me to send. This Christmas, there is no Dad. 

Besides the usual markers of the year such as birthdays, 2021 has seen other milestones, such as the big transition to senior school for one child and another becoming an adult. Each milestone has been punctuated by pain in the middle of the joy. I’ve experienced that cruel form of amnesia peculiar to grief: the sudden desire to share and dissect, swiftly stamped upon by the realisation that it’s no longer possible. With Christmas approaching, building up like a wave, I find myself standing on the shore, paralysed, bracing myself for the hit.

In April, my Dad died suddenly from a heart attack at a time when my eye was firmly trained on the Covid ball. On the day he was ripped out of my life, we spoke on the phone about how we would all be able to get together this Christmas to make up for the pain of being separated last year. Like so many others, we had diligently followed the rules, thinking we would be rewarded after the long haul for our good behaviour. Instead, I received the ultimate reproach for my stark naivety and took my place among the grief-stricken.

As a reluctant new member of this club, I’m finding that Christmas puts grief into high definition. I’m a cocktail of numbness and emotion – failing to be impressed by the lights in my local town yet sobbing over animated carrots on a TV advert. It’s an unnerving journey not knowing when grief is going to get you in a chokehold. I find myself sobbing to Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas replacing ‘is you’ with ‘my Dad.’ Many might argue crying in response to Mariah’s music is a perfectly reasonable response for reasons not related to grief. For me, it’s the annual refrain from my Dad announcing: ‘Emma, Christmas isn’t Christmas without Mariah!’ The haunting harmonies of the Coventry Carol transport me back to Boxing Days as a child listening to the choir at Lichfield Cathedral and I’m reminded of our shared love of music in all its forms. 

As the one who ensures Christmas happens in our house, at one point, I seriously wondered whether it would. I seem to have lost all ability to plan. I’ve been enveloped in a strange torpor, disassociating in a way I never have before. Were it not for the children, I’d probably take to my bed with a bottle of Baileys and watch Paddington on repeat.

With the unwelcome arrival of the omicron variant, Christmas is still far from the carefree bonanza everyone hoped it would be and we’re all still on uncertain ground. 

But at a time when we currently can enjoy the presence of our families for Christmas, mine will have a huge absence. And for many, like me, who have endured long separations followed by a loss during the pandemic, the healing process is not straightforward.

Lucy Herd trained as a grief recovery specialist following the death of her young son in a drowning accident. Her Facebook page The Grief Educator and her group Grief and a Cuppa offer information and support to the bereaved. She recognises that for some, continuing Christmas traditions once shared with loved ones can be too painful and it’s fine to do something differently or not do anything at all. “Just be gentle with yourself and do what you can,” she advises.

I remember my Dad losing his Dad 13 days before Christmas when I was 17. On Christmas Day, trying to assemble an exercise bike (it was the 1990s), he became frustrated and uncharacteristically burst into tears. I understand it only too well now. This year, Christmas feels like the last hurdle in a challenging year. It won’t necessarily be the traditional markers that will break me; it will be putting the rubbish out. When staying with us, Dad always used to stuff the Christmas rubbish in the wrong bins every time. Mutual irritation and apologies ensued. All I really want for Christmas is rubbish in the wrong bin.