I flicked on the radio in the car last week. I like this one station that plays a mix of 80’s and 90’s hits from artists like UB40, Duran Duran, Prince, Wham. Songs that bring me back to some of the best parts of my youth: memories of singing and dancing with my sister to Top of the Pops.
I didn’t sing along in the car for a long time after my son died, but this year I have caught myself doing it again. It’s one of the things I don’t feel so guilty about anymore.
Last week as the radio filled the car with the words “…all I want for Christmas is you” my heart sank, as sadness landed in my stomach with a heavy thud.
Is it really that time of year again?
It seems to have snuck up on me, this season of joy that makes the aching for my son feel sharper.
Now that my older son has grown out of shows and lights, it reduces my exposure to happy and complete families, or at least the illusion of them. Yet I miss seeing the wonder and awe in his big blue eyes that those magical moments provided. His little brother would be eight now - some of the best years of the magic and excitement of Christmas. Our home has moved on from those years way too soon.
Last year we changed how we spent the holiday, and went abroad for a few days. It was something new. It has taken trial and error to find out what feels best, or less hard, during difficult times of the year. I felt nervous, despite it being my idea. But I didn’t need to be, we had such a good time exploring a new city. It didn’t feel like Christmas at all, simply a break away. I didn’t miss my boy any less. I imagined and missed Ruairí just the same, maybe even more, as we did fun things together as a family without him. My mind floated between this life and that one, imagining him with us. I wondered if he’d have liked the ferris wheel ride we took, or if he’d have been scared. Shane would have gladly hung back with him. I saw him eating ice cream with us, his little face, chubby cheeks, those deep blue eyes, his smiling mouth smeared with ice cream, would he have cared?
One evening while out walking, we stumbled across a small church. We went in and lit a candle together for Ruairí and sat in the sacred silence that churches provide. Tears trickled down my face, the longing for him hurt so much. I floated away for a while, to that different life with him in it.
Sometimes I still can’t quite believe I’ll never see him again.
After we left, my heart ached in that familiar way when missing Ruairí intensifies. Yet I felt a certain tranquility from deep within that felt new as I ambled along hand in hand with Shane, our older one, alongside us. Being able to hold such starkly opposing emotions all at once has taken me a long time: to feel the pain and the happiness, without being overwhelmed.
As the Christmas music gets louder this year I remind myself that I can keep steady, despite the unfathomable truth that Ruairí is not here. And, I remind myself too that Christmas is about spending time with my family. This year we’ve planned another adventure abroad, finding our own new magical moments in discovering new places together.
Of course staying steady remains challenging through these weeks. But I’ve learned the best thing to do is to let myself float between this life, and that one where Ruairí still exists. Keeping him close is what allows me to stay steady.
Just like when I sat in that church.
It is brutal, and beautiful.
It almost, at times, feels like time travel.
A different kind of magic.
If you too are walking this earth without someone you love, I hope you can find ways to feel connected to them, to love them in the ways you can.
And if you know someone missing their loved one, don’t be afraid to include them in a conversation. You won’t be reminding them that their person has died but you will be letting them know that you remember them, and that it is a special gift you can give them.