Number Eighty Six: Stinking, steaming shit with sprinkles.

As the final weeks of 2016 tick by, I thought it was worth a bit of a reflect.

Fuck me, it’s shit.

After the hellish emotional roller coaster of November, I genuinely didn’t know what to expect of December. No more, this time last years….because this time last year I was this time last yearing. But you know what, that’s ok! That’s a good thing! The dates slipping further back in my mind don’t make me question how much I love my Bean. It’s just as simple as the fact that the world keeps turning, I keep living and things just aren’t as raw anymore. My fried egg is hardening, but the yoke is still there. And that’s fine.

But then December comes. December. The royal headfuck of the calendar. I used to love Christmas. We used to love Christmas. We created our own traditions whilst accommodating our separate families odd quirks. Well, mainly Beanie putting up with my families instance of rice with Christmas dinner (the potatoes are there too, never fear! Double carb!) and him accepting the fact that Dr Who was not a family viewing moment. We did through the ‘is it too soon to do this?’ phase, to the ‘I want to be with you, not go to work’ phase, to ‘this time next year, we could have our own family’ phase.


December 2013. That was the last good one. The last actual Merry Little Christmas.

I will forever be grateful for the memories we have, and words cannot describe how grateful I was that we had one Christmas together as a family of 3. Even though we’d received his diagnosis 2 days before hand, and we had absolutely no idea what the future held, we had a good day. A great day! But something definitely died in me that day.


So, as I approach my 3rd Christmas with Nunu, my second without him, I hear you mutter why so shit? Why worth a blog? The truth is, it’s not remembering what we had and wanting that back. Because that wouldn’t involve Nunu, Sausage or Stitch and that would just be very strange indeed. It’s looking forward and my heart breaking for what he’s missing.

Every year, Nunu gets older. More fun, bonkers, more aware….


And he’s missing it. He doesn’t get to see her reaction of terror to Santa. He doesn’t get her running around Southbank all excited by the people and the Coca-Cola trucks. He doesn’t see how much she loves a Christmas tree. He doesn’t get to listen to her sing jingle bells with her best friend, or in the bath to her bath toys.

And as the years go on, he’ll never get to see her excited face in the morning when ‘he’s been!’. He won’t get to see her debate that actually, he might not have actually been, as Mummy and Daddy get lazier when it comes to swapping the types of wrapping paper.

He won’t get to experience the first time she brings home a boyfriend, or the time she leaves to spend Christmas else where. He won’t get to enjoy his first Christmas as a Grandad.

He won’t get to experience anything. And because every year is new, and every year she’ll have changed so much, it’s not something that will ever get any easier. The wound never gets to fully heal, so 12 months later when the knife plunges in, it hurts just as much, if not more, as it did the 12 months before.

But the people around you move on. Their own lives progress, and they start to build the memories and traditions that me and Beanie started back in 2009. And so they should!

There are those that just choose to cope by ignoring it. Ignoring us, as we are a living reminder of what used to be. And, well, I have my own views on that, as I’m sure they do too. It is what it is.

And then there’s those of us who are stuck. There’s a select group of people who get to experience this Christmas ground hog day hell; young widows and bereaved parents. Controversial as it is, I do believe this. And I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

So, December sucks. There’s no way of escaping it. Head down, crack on, do your best for your kids and hope January brings better things. Because if I didn’t have Nu, I’d stay in bed for a month, order in take away and eat my way through the holidays in a drunken haze.

But I do. So on I go. And so do so many others I know. Through every second of heartache.

Fucking December, you stinking pile of steaming shit. 13 days till its all over.




One thought on “Number Eighty Six: Stinking, steaming shit with sprinkles.

  1. So much of this rings true for me Leah. I can completely relate to the joy you and Beanie felt making your own traditions and looking forward to what ‘next Christmas’ might be like. I can’t even begin to imagine how much it sucks to not have him here to do that with now. And your words about those who are ‘stuck’ is such an eloquent way of putting it – its how my sister feels at this time of year too. As always, you just have such a good way with words!! I’m continually in awe of you, and sending you love and courage. And plenty more days of Nu being mischievous, funny and joyful to keep you going xxx

    Liked by 1 person

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