I’ve been trying to get pen to paper for a week now. Or at least fingers to keyboard. But you know how it is at this time of year. Hectic. Even without the frenzy of pre-Christmas visiting, my health has dictated that the amount I would achieve each day would be seriously limited this year. Oh the joys of chronic illness. But I’ve arrived at Christmas Eve, just about intact, physically at least, emotionally I’m hanging by a thread, but everything is as up together as it’s going to be.

I’ve learned to lower my standards. The flat hasn’t been cleaned from top to bottom. No one’s visiting anyway. I have some decorations up, but my lounge is not filled with fairy lights that dramatically and simultaneously illuminate at the touch of a remote control button. And unlike my glory days of making three Christmas cakes each year, Christmas puddings, enough mince pies to sink a ship, jigsaw log, marzipan novelties, homemade chocolates and so on, I’ve just bought what we fancied and there’s still enough to feed an army. Didn’t actually anticipate the boy getting a food goody bag from work, and a hamper because he’s still categorised as a care leaver. We won’t go hungry. The boy is having Christmas lunch with his other, other family. I have been threatening to just eat Quality Street and drink Baileys, but we’ll see. And we will have our gargantuan roast together on Boxing Day.

So one week ago I had my fifth weekly appointment at the sexual health clinic in Basingstoke. The previous week they had taken a swab to check the infection I’d had was gone. I had also been having a smattering of genital warts frozen each appointment. I got my swab results back, I am infection free, and when they checked out the warts, they had all gone too. I felt stupidly happy. Trailing to appointments each week was becoming tiresome but I kind of felt I deserved it for my irresponsible sexual behaviour. Walking away from the clinic I felt a huge sense of relief. If I haven’t mentioned this before, having one’s genitalia blasted with liquid nitrogen is bloody painful. Eye watering painful. I do not recommend. Zero stars.

With that sorted, Christmas preparations got into full swing. Cards got posted. Gifts were wrapped. Presents were sent or delivered. Decorations were placed. Shopping was done. Groceries arrived. The boy was dispensed to shop for missing and forgotten food items. Even wine got mulled (the closest I’ve got to domestic goddess status so far).

My dad’s will didn’t leave anything specifically to his grandchildren. He had said to me previously that it was up to me to decide what I would give to the boy. I assume he had the same conversation with my brother regarding his children. My financial advisor warned against giving a large cash sum to the boy. As he had always planned to get a newer car with it, I bought the car for him, as advised by the financial guru. Yesterday we collected it from the dealership. Seeing him so incredibly excited and happy, after all he has been through in his short life so far was an absolute joy. If I haven’t said this recently, my son is an awesome young man and I am beyond proud of him. And as much as I wish he didn’t have to, he looks out for his mental and disabled mum like a boss.

So I have been somewhere between feeling accomplished and absolutely buzzing most of the last week. The thing I had been trying to avoid thinking about was trading in my son’s old car. Previously my car. AKA Little Red Car. The actual star of a car who arrived in my life twelve years ago when my husband died. I had really strong emotional bonds with Little Red. Saying goodbye to her was incredibly sad. I hope she finds a new home with someone who takes care of her. She’s been faithful and reliable and she deserves that.

And then we got home to the news that our area is moving from tier 2 to tier 4 on Boxing Day. I just felt utterly despairing. I want to stay in, stay safe and see an end to all of this, but I also want to get out, see my friends, and get my hair and nails done. Not because I’m selfish and don’t care about others, but because those self care measures improve my very vulnerable mental health. While the boy headed out again in his new car, I sat home alone and howled. Desolate, miserable, frustrated tears. I already feel like I’ve been running on empty for months. How much more?

So what then can I say? What I always say; have the best Christmas you can. Do what you need to do to get through. Look after yourselves and those you love. Survive. Breathe. The rest isn’t important. Sending love x

Christmas 👼🏻

And here’s some penguins. Because who doesn’t love penguins?