I hate Christmas.
Part of it comes from years in retail. While everyone else is enjoying themselves, there’s an army of people facilitating the festive period who absolutely dread it. I was part of that army.
But my personal animosity has more recent foundations.
Christmas 2019
In November 2019, Jude’s dad was taken ill and hospitalised. I was ill too — the worst cold I can remember. Jude wanted a new kitchen. We’d already bought the units and put them into storage. She deployed her dad’s illness as leverage. A lovely new kitchen for Christmas would be a real fillip. What was I going to say?
I accepted the challenge on 11 December.
The kitchen, as designed by Howdens, could not physically fit into the room. Two numbers had been transposed. All the units were already sitting in storage. Revised plans arrived. We cracked on.
The under-counter fridge had been positioned precisely where the incoming water supply emerged from the floor. The supply pipe was steel and buried deeper than expected. The wall we needed to chase turned out to be solid brick backing onto the chimney. Progress became glacial.
Replacement units eventually turned up from Chester. We discovered we had chased the electrical cables into exactly the places where the wall units needed to be fixed. More workarounds.
By the evening of 23 December the kitchen was almost finished. The only thing missing was a drain to the outside. Sascha couldn’t come. We were seriously contemplating cooking Christmas dinner in the motorhome.
I flagged down Kev as he drove past. He and Tom arrived with limited time and no SDS bit for the drill. They made the hole by drilling twenty individual holes around the circumference and knocking out the middle. Not pretty. But the drain went in.
Kitchen functional. With hours to spare.
Life on the edge.
And this isn’t actually about a kitchen. It’s partly about why I hate Christmas.
Christmas 2020
Late November 2020. Jude had one too many vinos and failed to negotiate the bottom stair. The boys and I heard the crash and found her in a heap in the hallway.
That’s the day our lives changed.
As the bruising subsided she noticed a couple of lumps. They were substantial and growing rapidly. Within days one had begun erupting through her skin.
In December she was rushed into hospital for emergency surgery. The biopsy revealed a rare form of breast cancer. Stage 4.
Another reason to hate Christmas.
What followed was years of treatment. Mastectomy. Chemotherapy. Radiotherapy. Jude discovered a passion for tattoos. They covered her scars and helped her reclaim her body. Every February the scans came back clear. Five years in remission. Eventually we started to relax.
Christmas 2025
Jude finished work on 18 December with a nagging headache and a sense of giddiness. We had Christmas dinner as normal.
On Boxing Day I knew something wasn’t right. The shopping list she returned looked as though it had been written with the wrong hand.
“Just messing,” she said.
In the car with Rob I raised my concerns. My spider sense was tingling.
“It’s just Mum.”
By the 28th I was seriously worried. On the 29th I asked her when her mum’s birthday was.
“Soon.”
That’s not my wife.
I asked how old the children were. How long we’d been married. No substantive answers.
I persuaded her to see the GP on 31 December. We had an almighty row. She called me abusive and controlling. At the surgery she screamed at me and hit me when I asked to go in with her. I was forced out of the room. As I left I looked the doctor in the eyes and, through tears, said:
“Please do a dementia assessment.”
The door closed. I stood outside, helpless.
The GP called me back in. Something was seriously wrong. We were sent straight to A&E.
Tests. Scans. Not good.
On 2 January we were told the cancer was back with a vengeance. Metastasized; tumours in her lungs and a massive tumour in her brain. In a matter of days we were told it was inoperable.
Jude was admitted on 12 January. She was dead by 9 February.
I could go on, but that’s enough for now.
Christmas and New Year?
This year I have to face it “alone” with my two sons.
You can keep it.
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