I ask myself, what have I learned from thinking about Eddie, my son, who died of meningococcal septicaemia (sepsis) in 1999 aged nearly 19? (All those 9s, I often think.)
I’ve got it, now, that the difficulty is not death – that’s a very ordinary thing. The difficult bit is grief. Then if I ask what grief is, I answer myself by saying, grief is being sad that things aren’t the same as they were. Then I say to myself, but nothing’s the same. Everything’s changing all the time.
So I ask myself, should I put grief into this big, big thing of everything changing?
Yep, I say.
But then, what about the fact that he isn’t here?
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Well, that’s not true. He is here. Every time I think about him, he’s here. And every time anyone else thinks about him, he’s there. He’s all over the place.
Ah, but think of all those things that you enjoyed doing with him – going to Arsenal, listening to his jokes, playing cricket on the beach. And Christmas. He loved Christmas. He spent hours and hours choosing presents and loving the presents he got.
Yes. And?
Well, it’s sad that that’s gone.
But no more sad than my other children’s childhoods, surely? Their childhoods are all gone, too. Why taint Eddie’s childhood with the memory of what came later, spoiling the memories with the fact that he died? Why spoil the memories?
Yes. Good point.
You could write a story about that.
I couldn’t. I couldn’t write a story about Eddie loving Christmas. Apart from anything else, don’t most children who live in a family that celebrates Christmas enjoy it? It’s too ordinary for a story. “Eddie enjoys Christmas”. Nope, that’s not a story.
What about an empty chair at the Christmas table?
Oh, no. No, no, no. C’mon. Maybe an adult book, but not a children’s book. Think about it. OK.
And then how about if, when the children are sharing out the presents from under the tree, some of the presents are for Eddie? Labelled “Happy Christmas, Eddie”?
Well, we didn’t do that. Perhaps we should have. That might have helped, back then in 1999…
There’s a lot of things you could have done.
Please, don’t talk to me like that.
I’m not. I’m you, talking to yourself.
Oh, yes.
I’ve got another idea.
I don’t want more ideas.
No, listen, this is a really good idea.
OK, go on.
How about if, when the children are sharing out the presents from under the tree, some of the presents are for Eddie?
In this story, you’ve stopped believing in Santa. Let’s say there are young children. You’re Dad.
Yes, yes, yes, I know – I’ve had children since Eddie died. C’mon!
Yes, we both know that. Let me get on. So you’re telling the young children that you’re leaving out the mince pie and brandy for Santa.
Rum.
OK, it doesn’t matter which…
And the carrot for Rudolph. The kids go to bed and…
I eat the mince pie and tip the rum down the sink because I don’t drink.
And then you sit there thinking about Eddie…
No, I nibble the carrot, leaving carrot marks from where Rudolph nibbled it.
OK, you nibble the carrot. And then you think about Eddie at Christmas, and you’re sad.
But I do that thing I’ve learned how to do so as not to spoil it by saying that he died. Just sit in on the memory and enjoy it for what it is.
OK, but we need you to be sad in this story.
OK, I’m sad. Being sad happens, even though I do that thing I’ve learned. Go on.
So you’re looking out of the window… and suddenly you catch sight of a sleigh flying through the sky, and you say to yourself: “But hang on, I don’t believe in Santa. I’m Jewish. Unless Santa is Jewish? No, I’m getting muddled. But what is this? Is it a movie on the TV being reflected on to the window?” You look round. No. It is Santa, and he’s getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger. And is it? Can it be? Is it? Is it Eddie? Yes, Eddie is Santa! He comes down the chimney in his enormous boots and lands in the hearth. Kerflump!
He was very, very big. Bigger than me.
I know.
And what does he say to me?
He says, “Bloody hell, I’m smashed.” And you say, “Take a break, Eddie. You stay up too late these days.” And he says, “I like nights. Nights are where I live. Anyway, must go. I’ve got to get to Kilburn.” And he turns to go. But then he turns back, fishes in his pocket and pulls out a box of something. He hands it to you. You start ripping at the paper. Your thumb gets stuck. You rip some more. And then you see it. It’s a box of chocolate gingers. Crystallised ginger covered in dark chocolate. You say, “Bloody brilliant. Chocolate bloody gingers!” And he says, “There you go, Dad. I bet you’ll bloody eat them in a couple of hours.” You’re dead chuffed that he’s given them to you. You look down, and the next one is stuck in its little section in the box, so you have to wrestle with it. You look up to expect him to be laughing at you for being a klutz, as per usual, but he’s gone. He’s not there. You go to the window. And there isn’t even the sleigh in the sky. Nothing.
Can’t there be a sleigh in the sky, with Eddie waving to me out the back as he zooms off?
OK, yes, you can have the sleigh.
Good.
Is he waving out the back?
Yep. He’s waving out the back. What do you think?
I like it.
Would you like some chocolate gingers for Christmas?
You bet I bloody would.
You should ask Santa for some.
I will.
Photograph courtesy of the Rosen family