This December I am swimming 26 miles to reflect the emotional marathon that is Christmas for so many members of my Care Family. 42 kilometres. 42000 meters. Completed between December 1st and December 31st. I am taking on this physical and mental challenge to raise money for the Who Cares? Scotland Care Family Christmas. I am determined to support Care Experienced People to be together on Christmas Day and to create positive stories this Christmas. Stories that they will want to cherish forever.
All money raised will go directly to Who Cares? Scotland to contribute to the Care Family Christmas. I would greatly appreciate all donations. Please visit my JustGiving Page: Carmel Jacob is fundraising for Who Cares? Scotland.
Here’s my Christmas Story…
Lying in bed at night listening intently for any signs of reindeer on the roof. The tapping of the rain, an annoying distraction as I try to block out all known sounds to ensure I don’t miss anything new. No noise from downstairs for some time. Gran must be asleep, likely on the couch because I didn’t hear her go to bed. Time to sneak out of my bedroom to see what I can see. Tiptoeing down the first few stairs, avoiding the corner step that is known for its creaking noise. I stop half-way to stare ahead through the window at the end of the landing. It’s the ornamental candle holder with the silhouette of Santa’s sleigh gliding over the moon, that’s what triggers this memory. Every year I place it on my windowsill and recall all the years I crouched tightly on that staircase, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders to shield me from the draught, waiting, watching out the window for Santa Claus. I was a lucky child. Santa Claus always came to my house.
Potatoes, my nemesis each year I host dinner. The endless pealing of potatoes and the reminder of all the times we would compete, to see who could eat the most. It was 14 one year. 14 roast potatoes down the hatch. Instant regret, not worth the accolade. The board games always led to arguments, but I continue to search for a new one to play. To rekindle that feeling of connection, of raw and genuine interactions that are underpinned by a feeling of safety and belonging. Oh, how I wish that feeling could have lasted forever. Oh, how lucky I am to have ever felt that way.
It’s the smell of the decorations, older than me, as I collect the boxes from the attic, still wrapped in the same newspaper they always were. Lasting the test of time, despite their delicacy. That smell, fusty but festive, it takes me back to my childhood living room like a bolt. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, hot chocolate in hand as my Gran and I bicker over where to place the baubles on the tree. Big ones at the bottom, always. It’s the tree. It used to leave us gifts of its own, appearing after our Christmas dinner with a note saying, ‘For you, from the Tree.’ A special tradition I will carry forward. It’s the traditions. The milk and carrot for Santa and Rudolph, the chocolate orange in the stocking, and the handwritten ‘thank you’ note Gran would make me send to Lapland as soon as the post office was open. Always important to say thank you. I am so thankful for all the wonderful Christmases I enjoyed as a child growing up in Kinship Care.
It’s the thought of my Mum, newly introduced to her twenties and doing her everything to make her child’s Christmas as special as can be. It’s the fact that I will never remember a Christmas with my Mum, even knowing the effort and love she would have put into each one we shared together. It’s the dark cloud of grief and loneliness that comes alive when the nights get shorter and darker. The sadness, flickering along with the Christmas lights, leaving a heavy feeling in my chest that can’t be explained so must be held inside. It is the constant reminder of the ‘normal family’ that illuminates all feelings of difference. Amplifying insecurities. A forced reminder of all that will never be. It is the longing, for all the things that will never be. It’s asking Santa for a ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ even though you know that will never be. It’s the shame that comes with wanting more than I have. It’s the terrifying realisation that my Gran is old, so she won’t share every Christmas with me. It’s being scared to share my fears, in case somehow saying them out-loud will make them true. It’s how alone it can make you feel, not sharing your fears.
It’s the gentle sound of Christmas Carols creeping into the Intensive Care Ward on Christmas Eve. Thank you to the Salvation Army for playing so beautifully for so long in a cold, deserted hospital hallway as we said our goodbyes to my beloved Gran who raised me from the age of three. It was almost midnight, almost Christmas day. It’s the realisation that Christmas will never be the same again. To whom do I belong? It’s the isolation and despair that came in waves for years to come. Especially at Christmas. It’s those that propped me up, just enough to catch my breath. The ones who never let me come fully undone. You know who you are. I love you.
It’s the love you have for someone, so deep, and then you don’t know where to put it. It’s the hate you have for a world that can push you to your limits, and beyond. It’s knowing that you must cope, but not having the energy. It’s really needing things to feel better, but recognising that for a little while yet, they probably won’t. It’s the years of fertility issues and the countless prayers to be a Mummy. To be someone’s Santa Claus. It’s all the times I took a swig of wine at Christmas and said, ‘hopefully next Christmas I will be pregnant.’ It’s the year I couldn’t do it, and the decorations stayed in the attic. We hid away in a cabin in the middle of nowhere as my darling cousin, the most gorgeous of humans inside and out, had her first baby on Christmas Eve, of all days. It’s how happy I was for her and how sad I was for myself, in equal measures. It’s how selfish I felt for being sad in her special moment. It’s how much I wanted to be there for her but couldn’t. It was too painful; I was too weak. It’s the promise that soon after Christmas, IVF will start. It’s the determination, ‘next Christmas I might be pregnant.’ It’s the ‘might’, I am losing hope.
It’s the Christmas we went out for dinner for the first time in my life. I ate in a restaurant on Christmas Day. I couldn’t be bothered cooking. But that Christmas I got to say, ‘I won’t be having a wine, I’m six months pregnant.’
It’s planning for my daughters first Christmas. Call me Santa Claus. It’s the thought of building my own family traditions. What will she get from the Tree? It’s the excitement of making my baby girl smile. It’s the privilege of shaping her Christmas stories. It’s wishing my Gran could meet her. It is the complex myriads of life events that comprise my Christmas stories. There is no one version that does justice to the intricacies of life nor to the influence of Christmas. A delicate weave of heartache and joy, isolation and connection, fear and hope, longing and belonging. I am one of the lucky ones.
It’s Christmas. The word itself holds power. It triggers so much. From the moment we say goodbye to the Pumpkins it’s everywhere. In the shops, on TV, radio, it’s in the air. Christmas is everywhere. It attacks all your senses. It’s a force from which you cannot retreat. Trust me, I’ve tried. It’s unavoidable. For me, it conjures up magical memories that build me up and memories that could break me. For many who grew up in Care, the latter is the only truth. Without family by your side, getting through the most emotive season of all can feel like an insurmountable task. Accentuated often by the harsh memories of Christmases past. Christmas can feel like a marathon for someone who is Care Experienced.
What a wonderful world it would be if all children growing up in Care, experienced Christmas as it should be. A truly magical time of year full of love, kindness and tasty treats. Big family round a big table, battling over Christmas Crackers and sharing laughs over cheesy Christmas jokes. ‘What do you call Santa Claus when he doesn’t move? Santa Pause’. What wonderful Christmas stories this would generate in abundance. This is not our world. Many children in Care are not making memories they will want to hold onto, to reflect on fondly with their own children in years to come as they share cookies by the fire.
We cannot re-write the stories of Christmases gone by, but for Care Experienced People in Scotland we are determined to write new stories. The Who Cares? Scotland Care Family Christmas Dinner provides a sense of safety and belonging for many Care Experienced People. People who would otherwise be on their own on Christmas Day. The power of connection is indescribable. The Care Family Christmas gives Care Experienced people something to look forward to at a time that can be so bleak and unforgiving. The impact of this is immeasurable.
‘I have found a family to spend Christmas Day with and it was more magical than I could ever put into words.’
– Who Cares? Scotland Member
I have many Christmas Stories and most of them are wonderful. I have experienced the magic of Christmas and for that I am eternally grateful. I wish that all Care Experienced People could have positive Christmas Stories. I care deeply about this and I want to do something about it.
All money raised will go directly to Who Cares? Scotland to contribute to the Care Family Christmas. I would greatly appreciate all donations. Please visit my JustGiving Page: Carmel Jacob is fundraising for Who Cares? Scotland.
Good Luck Carmel – from everyone at Who Cares? Scotland x
