How to Cope With Grief When the World Expects Joy

I miss my dad most at Christmas.

My dad wrote dozens of children’s books just for me. Every weekend and holiday, I’d wake up and eagerly jump onto his bed so he could read me the next installment. Each story had magic, wizards, and a rich fantasy world. He illustrated his writing with glorious pictures.

My best Christmas memory was when I woke up too early with excitement, ran into the living room, and found a vast miniature forest filled with all the characters from his books. They were all delicately painted by hand. It was like my dreams had come to life.

I was enthralled with my gift for months as my dad would play games with me in our new forest. But it wasn’t until I became an adult that I could appreciate his effort to make me a truly unique gift.

My dad hated Christmas.

After displaying such loving thoughtfulness, it might surprise you that my dad hated Christmas. He could never get beyond the greed and the expectation of happiness, regardless of what happened in someone’s life.

For many people, Christmas is the worst time of year. For those lost in grief or despair, their pain is highlighted by everyone else looking so content. It’s hard for a thoughtful person to tuck into their turkey when large chunks of the world are suffering disaster and death on an epic scale.

Eating an average of five thousand calories requires dissociation while so many are starving. To enjoy a warm house with so many homeless on the streets or to feel secure while children are getting blown to pieces needs some level of denial.

While my dad hated the concept of Christmas, he never let that show to my childhood self, and every year was magical, thanks to him.

I can remember playing a racing game called Super Mario Kart. I’d get ahead of him and wait by a corner. As he sped around it, I’d drop a banana skin in front of him and laugh myself hoarse as he spun off the road, cursing me. In later years, we swapped Mario Kart for Chess, and I laughed equally hard as I set him up for trick after dirty trick.

One year, he knew I loved arcade games, so he bought me a full-sized arcade machine and kept it at his shop until Christmas Eve. Late that night, he went and collected it, single-handedly carried it into the house, and set it up in the living room without me hearing so much as a sound.

Nothing was too much trouble for my dad.

A hole at the dinner table.

In 2019, my dad died of heart disease and a bleed on the brain. A few months earlier, his heart problems had caused him to faint, and he hit his head on the way down.

He died peacefully at his computer, hand still on the mouse, trying to finish his latest book as he knew his time was coming.

As an only child and part of a small family, his death has sent shockwaves through our family that only now have started to weaken.

He died in November. Suddenly, I’d become one of the “Christmas Forgotten.” Now, I knew what it was like to be expected to smile when you feel like crying.

The first three Christmases were horrible. Where was my best friend? Despite being an adult, I still enjoy games, yet without my dad’s personality, none of them felt worth playing. I had to play to win instead of hiding and dropping banana skins to see his reaction.

My mum felt the pain, too. After Christmas day was over and my partner and I went home, she was alone with the decorations and the ghosts of Christmas past.

There was a hole at the dinner table as big as the one in my heart.

The one true cliche.

When it comes to grief, time does heal. Last year wasn’t so bad, and I’m slightly looking forward to Christmas this year.

The big difference is we’re going out for Christmas dinner for the first time. There’ll be no hole at the dinner table, and we’ll be doing something different, taking the focus off the past and what we’ve lost.

For anyone experiencing grief at this time of year, consider doing something different. Christmas will never be the same, so you shouldn’t treat it as such. Change your routines. Go somewhere different, see some friends, eat out, stay in if that’s not your usual plan. The important thing is to make Christmas bearable until time kicks in with some anesthetic.

Although time heals, it never takes you back to how you once were. It enables you to go forward while injured — to walk with a limp. But you’ll still be walking, and life is all about accumulating scars while continuing to move forward.

Strategies to help you over Christmas.

As well as mixing up your routines and giving time a chance to heal, there are some other things I’ll be using this Christmas to keep my head above water. Some of them may help you, too.

• Talk about your grief. You don’t have to act happy with those who know and love you. Sometimes, admitting that Christmas won’t be perfect this year is enough to lighten the load.
• Be flexible. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, canceling plans is ok. Let people know you’re struggling. The real friends will support you.
• Look after yourself. If you have children or family, it can be easy to lose yourself in the chaos and desire to be a good parent/relative. But you must look after your mental health and stick to a basic routine of getting up, eating properly, and getting some exercise. Otherwise, you’ll be of no use to anyone.
• Remember your loved one. Don’t make their death the elephant in the room. Light a candle, make a special decoration, or eat their favorite food. Whatever means something to you and helps you remember the good times.

It’s ok to be ok.

Eventually, there will be a Christmas — maybe this one — that will start to feel more manageable as your grief lessens. This is when the guilt can come flooding in. We see it as a betrayal to heal. Part of us wants to stay brokenhearted to show the importance of our loved ones and how life will never be the same.

We resent the fact that the world still turns.

But your loved one wouldn’t want to see you in despair forever. One day, you’ll remember them with a smile in your heart instead of a tear on your cheek. You’ll see that their memory is better served in celebration than pain.

At some point this Christmas Day, I’ll cry privately for my loss. But then I’ll celebrate having the best dad in the world. We’ll raise a glass and laugh at all his funny habits and groan as we remember his terrible jokes.

It’s what he would have wanted.

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