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December 11, 2014 / Billy Boyle

May your days be merry and bright, And may all your christmases be white

(This is an article Kate wrote for the Times last week, which was printed today. She asked me to publish it to the blog as our time with her is now very short. Billy – 11th Dec ’14) 

The ghost of Christmas Future will hang around our table this year. As we decorate the tree, open our presents and sit down for lunch, I will not be the only one imagining what these same rituals will be like next December when I am no longer there. This is my last Christmas; 2015 is the last New Year I will see in. I am 36, my twin boys are not-yet-six, and I am dying from advanced colon cancer.

I have had this disease for over two years, but now I am drawing in like the December nights, knocking on the door of what Philip Gould called the death zone – the great winding down we all will face when we have weeks, not more, left to live. We found out last month that cancer was reproducing wildly in my colon, abdomen, lungs, liver and bone ever the over-achiever, my disease has taken the opportunity of a break from chemotherapy to run riot. So, I have exited the world of Oncology, a known space of sage Professors and carousels of bright young Registrars seeking to nuke my disease with an aggressive phalanx of drugs. I enter the calmer, quieter world of Palliative Care; regular visits from the nurses at my local hospice, ever increasing doses of morphine in an effort to quell these terrifying new-found pains that travel my body. In this new world my quest is for liveable days, pleasant and comfortable hours and moments of snatched happiness.

When I was asked to write this article about Christmas I hesitated. I hesitated because I am terrified that I won’t make it even that far, and writing down my hopes seems like tempting fate. Look at Linda Bellingham. She decided to stop her chemotherapy to give her a glorious “last” with her family, but she didn’t make it. And I am desperate to be well enough to open stockings and sing O Little Town of Bethlehem one more time, and desperate not to mar festive seasons to come with the grim anniversary of mummy’s demise. But, like all things that come with this dreadful disease I have named my Nuisance, I am not in control. I do not get to decide what speed this final part of my journey takes. Force Majeure could strike at any moment: I could pick up a chesty cough from the school playground which would do me in. The tumours could tighten their stranglehold on my liver well before it gets its last taste of Christmas sherry. Cancer is cruellest to the control freak like me. It strips away pleasures, one by one, finally stripping away my ability to plan anything other than the day ahead.

Come what may, Christmas won’t quite be Christmas this year for our family. Faced with this combination of hope and uncertainty, my family learn from Larkin: we know there is nowhere we can live but days. We can’t postpone our happiness until tomorrow because we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. We have to make the most of now. The 25th December is too far away to bank on, so I am denied my usual months of pre-Christmas list-making. But today, oh today I can be sure of. Today I will meet my best friend’s newborn baby. Today I will sit with my children and stuff our tasteful wooden advent calendar with gaudy sweets. Today I will walk with my Dad along the banks of the river Cam as the damp December mist enfolds us. And soon, so soon, it will be time to get the Christmas decorations out and marvel over the brightly coloured objects we haven’t seen for a year. Primary-coloured, heavy clay bells strung on ribbons, fashioned by clumsy toddler hands. Baubles covered with baby handprints. The armless Angel we cherish, amputee or not, secure in her perch at the top of the tree.

We can’t bank on anything. But that doesn’t mean we stop hoping for it. With a break in the pain, I can get out of my bed and my planning gene kicks in, as irrepressible as hope. What do I want this Christmas? I want to do the simple things again. Christmas is about precious rituals carved out over the years; learned from my parents as I grew up, now taking on a new shape in my own family. On Christmas Eve, I want my husband, the boys and I to go to cinema to see Paddington, have a crudely un-festive lunch of burgers and then go and sit in the shadow of Isaac Newton’s statue at the Trinity College crib service. I want to be able to get up at 6am to the shout of “is it morning yet?” and “Father Christmas has come! He’s come!” I want to toast my 100 year old Gran and smile as I see generations of one family around the table suffering our annual ration of Brussel sprouts. I want to see in 2015 in the wilds of Suffolk with my best friends and their kids, and a massive rib of beef. These are more than plans. They are iconic rituals which have gestated over the years. Repetition has scored the grooves deeply into our lives. I know these things we do will not die with me.

Let’s say I do get that far, let’s side with hope and say I make it to the toasts and the turkey and the carnage of present opening. I wonder how we will cope with the presence of Christmas Future at the feast. I am sure two rambunctious five year old boys will help keep him under control. And we are a pragmatic lot, our family, so I suspect we will welcome him in with some black humour and offer him a mince pie. An unwanted but acknowledged guest, better at the table than knocking menacingly at the window. Better we welcome him in and recognise that whilst my time-horizon is now as truncated as a toddlers, for those sitting next to me the idea of a long afterwards when our family is three, not four, is ever present in their minds.

I wonder if we will struggle more with the burden of lastness and the expectations of perfection it brings. There are few things I distrust more than the bucket list; I find any potentially wonderful experience easily ruined by the weight of expectation. I can celebrate this year being the final Christmas Dinner I eat – I never liked turkey much anyway. But if this is the last time I will open stockings with my children at the crack of dawn, then I will want it to be perfect. And, of course, it won’t be. Even if by some miracle I am fit (tish) and well (enough), like every family we will have our festive niggles. My darling, consumerist, selfish little boys will cherish the plastic Minecraft figures I bought them under duress more than my hand-crafted, memory laden gifts I have prepared for them. I will expend precious energy shouting at them when they refuse to wear a “smart” shirt and trousers for the big day. They will see more of the Mini-Ipads which Father Christmas has been asked for than my precious face. My husband will hate the jumper I buy him, as he does every year. The dog will steal a leg of turkey. My parents will have a terse exchange over the gravy, and only I will want to watch Downton Abbey.

Christmas always brings with it these stupidly high expectations, whether it is the last ever or whether you have years more celebrating ahead. We have expectations of perfect families, well-behaved children, thoughtful gifts lovingly received, peace and harmony replacing squabbles and nagging. If we are not careful, reality will ruin Christmas. Not just for our family, what with all this fate-tempting writing and my sky-high hopes, but for all of us. So I like to remind myself that a real Christmas includes the bad stuff too. Not just the gingerbread house, but the arguments over who will get to eat the sweet-filled roof. Not just the carol service, but the cold, wet wait at the bus-stop afterwards. Not just generations of family under one roof, but snidey bickering, competitive gift-giving and marital disharmony. And for us, this year, not energetic mummy running the show, but mummy lying on the sofa. Mummy sleeping through present opening. Mummy reaching for her ‘special Calpol to ease the pain. Dad taking too many photos of mum. A little cry on each others’ shoulder at the end of the day.

The Christmas idyll is never an idyll, for any of us. So my promise this year is to enjoy all of it. These days that lead up to it, not just the main event. The grumpiness, anger and frustration with my best beloveds that are a reminder that I am alive and red blood still pumps through my veins. I am pale imitation of the energetic parent I once was, but there is still pleasure to be gained from Christmas as a spectator sport. Though my Christmases past are blissful memories, I do not need to live there. The present is no idyll, but it’s what we have. And I intend to enjoy it. May you all do the same.

Late Fragments: Everything I Want to Tell You (About This Magnificent Life) was published on the 5th of January. You can order your copy today.

Help us remember Kate by making a donation to Street Child who are building a school in Sierra Leone, named after Kate, to help children get the education they deserve – learn more. 

107 Comments

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  1. Ruth T / Dec 11 2014 9:49 pm

    Dear Kate, sending you and Billy and the knights so much love for today and every ‘today’ you have together. We are all thinking of you – Ruth, Matthew and Rose

  2. Etain / Dec 11 2014 10:21 pm

    Beautifully written. I hope you get to enjoy all of it xxxx

  3. Michael Fogarty / Dec 11 2014 11:24 pm

    I will think of you on Christmas morning when I shout out “He’s been” to my children 19 and 18 . My best wishes to you x

  4. Kate / Dec 12 2014 12:29 am

    Dear Kate – another stranger and mum of small boys here. I’ve followed your blog a while, you write like a dream, congratulations on your book which I will read. You have achieved more in your years, in so many different ways, than most of us will achieve in a lifetime. Thank you so much for sharing your hard-won wisdom. I hope each of your new todays brings new joy and I wish you and your family every strength for what lies ahead, especially your boys. You will always light the way for them x

  5. Laura / Dec 12 2014 3:40 am

    Thank you for sharing this with us, Kate – so moving and so insightful. You remind us of what really matters. I pray that you will be able to spend Christmas with your family. God bless you. Laura x

  6. Sarah / Dec 12 2014 8:17 am

    To dear Kate,

    Another stranger. Your humanity. erudition and wit have shone light into my life. To quote your great poet Raymond Carver’s inscription his tombstone:

    And did you get what
    you wanted from this life even so?
    I did.
    And what did you want?
    To call myself beloved, to feel myself
    beloved on the earth.

    And you are so very beloved by us all.

  7. bananagiraffes / Dec 12 2014 8:22 am

    Dear Kate and your beautiful family, I have followed you from when your sharp wisdom burst onto our screens. Your words have a habit of staying with me long after I reluctantly press the x and try to get on with my own life. My mind keeps floating back to you and praying you are comfortable mentally and physically. You have touched and changed so many lives and made such a difference to the world which will outlast us all. I want to thank you so much for giving me and no doubt many thousands of others, the gift of perspective. I shall read your no doubt brilliant book when it arrives on my doorstep on 16th jan and I so hope you are still alive to enjoy and read how you touched us all. God bless, huge warm hugs and here’s to a pain free, chaotic but cosy Christmas x

  8. Kate Sparrow / Dec 12 2014 10:42 am

    Hello dear Kate,
    Can I call you dear, even though I don’t know you? I feel like I do. I probably shouldn’t have read that post whilst sitting in my chemo chair receiving the evil foxes for my own, very similar, nuisance. I’m sure you know the feeling, sitting feeling crappy and sorry for yourself, but putting on a brave and happy face, whilst wondering if you can get away without dragging the wheelie IV to the loo to empty the little bag we are supposed to call a friend (oh yes, I too have the pleasures of Abdo-Bum). Still, it’s a good excuse to have a red face and a runny nose.

    I am 43 and have been battling the nuisance with fortnightly chemo and the odd bit of surgery sprinkled in for good measure, for 3 years. I have children aged 10 and 6. It breaks my heart that I probably will never see them grow to their full, I’m sure amazing, potential. I know I am telling my grandmother to suck eggs, but I like to think it is enough that they love me, and I love them dearly, even though I still can’t quite get away from being Shouty Mummy.

    Enjoy your Christmas, with all your heart and with all it’s shortcomings. I, for one, will be raising a glass to you and your family.

    I will look you up on the other side.

    Kate.

  9. Linda Renton / Dec 12 2014 10:50 am

    Dear Kate

    Thank you for another wonderful post, and for all your insight and wisdom.

    May light surround you and all those you love.

    With love from

    Linda and Mike Renton

    _____

  10. Anne Rundle / Dec 12 2014 12:14 pm

    A beautiful article. It makes me remember what’s really important – life is too precious not to appreciate
    every second.

  11. Paul Oldfield / Dec 12 2014 12:15 pm

    Dear Kate

    The fast stream, Whitehall drinks and drunken dancing on tables in Brussels seems a long, long time ago.

    I’m a latecomer to your blog.

    You write beautifully and movingly. But that comes as no surprise. It was always pretty clear your star was destined to burn brightly.

    I will be hoping against hope, the very same hope as yours, that you get to experience and enjoy your last Christmas – for all it’s imperfections – with the people you love.

    This year will be my second Christmas with my partner, who lost her mum to cancer. It is a time of happy memories, and for remembering their loving relationship, imperfections and all. I’m sure it’ll be just the same for your boys for years to come…

    All the best. I’ll be thinking of you.

    Paul

  12. AnthropologiGal / Dec 12 2014 1:03 pm

    I have no words. Thank you.

  13. Yasmin / Dec 12 2014 1:45 pm

    Afternoon Kate. I read this at 1am and continued to read the rest of your blog. As the night turned to day, I felt like I know you very well but most of all I felt you. That is a testament to your honest and beautifully eloquent writing. I send my prayers, positive thoughts, virtual hugs and the love my soul to you, Billy, the boys and everyone else in your inner circle. You have healed and rectified the inner cracks that medicine and therapy could not. Thank you for being a miracle and right now I wish I had something witty to say that makes you laugh and laugh some more. So when it hits me I will share it. Thank you for being. Love. Love and more love.
    Someone who would fall in th rest of the world box…..Y

  14. Ben Caspar / Dec 12 2014 2:32 pm

    Dear Kate,

    I am afrad I have come to this terrible party rather late. I haven’t seen you for ten years, and I have been blissfully unaware of your troubles other than hearing that you were better. I have now read everything and I must say you have surprised me greatly. I knew you were great fun, and engaging and kind, but I did not realise that you were nearly as wonderful as you have turned out to be. I have been profoundly moved by all you have written, and along with my many great memories of you, I now have some serious inspiration to go with it. I will take your spirit, your drive and the energy with which you have faced the nuisance, and use it for myself and for my family. I will enjoy the present, and appreciated every moment I have, as you suggest. Thank you for not going down quietly Kate. A lot of people have benefited from what you had to say. I hope that every moment you have left feels like a lifetime. Much love to you and Billy and the kids. Many, many hugs.

    Love

    Ben (Rolles-Caspar), Priscilla, Leila, Sally and Charlotte.

  15. rdb / Dec 12 2014 3:04 pm

    Kate – thank you for writing. You have made me a better mother since I appreciate, or better said try to appreciate, every moment there is. Sending strength and love from the furthest reaches of the spiral, as a friend of a friend.

  16. Philip Berman / Dec 12 2014 3:19 pm

    Thank you, Kate. You have taught me so much. I will be thinking of you on Dec 25th. X

  17. Shelley / Dec 12 2014 3:34 pm

    Kate-as my mother was dying from breast cancer when I was 4, I remember her distancing herself from me. I didn’t make sense of this until I was an adult. Of course, she could not bear to say goodbye. I’m not saying for a moment that you can, but what you are doing is allowing all of the family and yourself to use”the transitional space” in the best of all possible ways-especially with your honesty -which most people would term “bravery”. I’m not sure Id call it bravery; Id call it your legacy and “good-enough” mothering. The intention of my words is not to make you feel better but to give you a tiny bit more strength to make sure you carry this on, with the knowledge from a bereaved child that you could not do more for them.
    My best wishes Dr Shelley Gilbert MBE, CEO Grief Encounter
    PS At risk of sounding evangelical, make sure someone knows how you are going to communicate with them from wherever you are going, if you have any ideas yourself…we just dont know-it may be possible..

  18. Anthony Measures / Dec 12 2014 6:00 pm

    Dear Kate,

    We think of you, Billy and your boys every day, and especially over Christmas. Your words are helping so many people today and every day.
    Love,
    Anthony, Helen, George and Samuel
    xxxx

  19. Caitríona Vulliamy / Dec 12 2014 6:04 pm

    May the road rise to meet you
    May the wind be always at your back
    May the sun shine warm on your face,
    the rain fall soft upon your fields
    Until we meet again
    May God hold you in the hollow of his hand

  20. Sarah Munnelly / Dec 12 2014 6:05 pm

    Kate, Billy, Oscar & Isaac
    We are thinking of you, praying and sending all our love.
    Much love
    Sarah, Pat, Madeleine, Patrick & Oscar Munnelly xx

  21. Stephen Colver / Dec 12 2014 6:58 pm

    Dear Kate,
    Thank you for all you have given the world in different ways. When the time comes, fall into the Love that awaits you.
    Stephen x

  22. Liz / Dec 12 2014 7:41 pm

    Dear Kate
    Thank you for sharing your wonderful words and your stories. I have been reading your blog for some time and I’m part of the wider Tit Hall massif.
    I lost my mum to cancer over the Christmas holidays 22 years ago (I was 11 and my brother 8) and your writing has helped me understand more about that and what life was like for her. I’m really grateful.
    I’ll be thinking of you, Billy, your boys and your family this Christmas, and hoping for the best of all the options available to you.
    With love and limitless respect,
    Liz

  23. Yvonne / Dec 12 2014 9:58 pm

    Kate, I don’t know if you set out to be an inspiration, but you most definitely are and I’m so very grateful. Thank you. I’m grateful also to Billy, your boys and your family for allowing us to share this part of your journey. We are better people for it, and I’m much more urgent about our work. My prayer is that your remaining time is absolutely fun 🙂 (especially with your babies), and while I know it’s wishful thinking, completely pain-free. And I pray that the final journey is peaceful. Thank you again. Much love, Yvonne

  24. lolshelley / Dec 12 2014 11:54 pm

    Oh Katie and Billy. What a gift your post is to us all. As I sit here, tears streaming down my cheeks, I am sending all of my prayers to you that you get to enjoy every precious moment of Christmas with your family Katie. Thank you for making me stop and realise the moment is now for all of us. None of us know what lies ahead. Thank you for making me stop and appreciate how lucky I am to be able to share Christmas with my family. I will stop stressing that I am so busy, that I haven’t done my shopping or even started to bake. I will savour the moment. Sending you all a massive virtual hug.x

  25. Anita Diaz / Dec 13 2014 12:06 am

    Hello Kate You have reminded me of how lucky I am with three grown sons a bit younger than you. I too love the rituals of Christmas with all the joys and imperfections. I know how much I would have feared and resented leaving my babies who I loved so fiercely as you do yours. I will light a Christmas candle for you and yours and pray that you will have a wonderful time together. Some things they will remember and in your own family rituals you will live on for your boys into their future.

  26. zoestellacurrie / Dec 13 2014 12:36 am

    Dearest Kate,
    You are loved by so many and your words are so beautiful.
    Now check your email and bellow if you wish an equally morphined visitor. We could wear beautiful shoes and nod off.
    With love to you and the knights and good husband. Xxxxxx

  27. zoestellacurrie / Dec 13 2014 12:39 am

    Reblogged this on bumbum girl and commented:
    I met Kate here online. She is the most amazing writer. She says it perfectly.

  28. Julie Killinger / Dec 13 2014 3:23 am

    Kate,
    Thank you for helping us see the truly important things in life, which are so often buried in all the mountain of things so totally unimportant. Reading your blog has made me feel so lucky and so grateful for my life, with all it’s imperfectionss and messes, because that’s what life is if you’re lucky. Messy and full of imperfections, and if you’re very lucky indeed, love. May the road rise to greet you and love ease your way.
    Julie K.

  29. Pam Cole / Dec 13 2014 10:31 am

    Dear Kate

    Another post from an almost-stranger* and wife of a lovely man whose mother succumbed to a similar Nuisance when he was 8 and his brother was 4. We fervently hope that you will have that precious Christmastime which she didn’t.

    This is not intended to upset, more to comfort. Her boys have gone on to have wonderful, happy lives as will yours, surrounded by the love which they will come to realise is your legacy to them.
    Your words will give them such an insight as they have to all of us. We all thank you for this.

    Sending much ove to you and yours.
    Pam C

    * You were very young when you sat with a group of us around a campfire in the Hajjar Mountains and watched us attempting to play Trivial Pursuit by torchlight. Your Mum’s idea!

  30. Tiff / Dec 13 2014 11:07 am

    A friend who read your blog sent me this simple quote, which I thought I would share with you
    “Not all days are good, but there is good in all days”.
    I hope the sunshine is filling your home today.
    Much love, Tiff xxx

  31. Liz Holden / Dec 13 2014 5:48 pm

    Dear Kate and Billy. This is the great goodness of the internet – you give people you don’t know the honour of sharing your story, we learn, we try to understand and empathise. May you continue to live for the day, with your gorgeous boys, for as long as possible – what an inspiration for us all. I hope in the midst of this sadness you may be able to share another family Christmas. Kind regards, from just another very privileged stranger. Lx

  32. Ruth French (Catchpole) / Dec 13 2014 10:53 pm

    Warm, wise and wonderful words Kate. You have always made a difference. Ruth

  33. Laurie Lee / Dec 14 2014 2:26 pm

    Dear Kate. It’s another beautiful blog with much joy as well as sadness. I took my son to see Paddington this weekend as an early birthday present and it’s a love letter to London (especially Notting Hill) as well as anti-UKIP manifesto. And the boys found it hysterical too. Including of course the traditional panto dame scene in the Royal Geographical Society library. You are so right about the hoped for perfections around Christmas. It was interesting to learn this year that as a child, six of Dickens’ first 9 Christmases were white, because the 1810s was the coldest decade in Britain since the 1690s! And this has led to disappointed children and romantics ever since. It would be presumptuous and silly to make predictions but I have a small suspicion that although those imperfections will still be there this year, they may rightly seem much less significant to everyone this year. I hope you have a nearly perfect – or at least over-achieving – Christmas.

  34. Juliette John / Dec 15 2014 12:59 am

    Dear Kate

    I’m also a latecomer to your blog. But I’ve been following you for a while, from afar and in a non-stalkerish way, and I’ve been so impressed by what you’ve done with and through AGI. Your boys are and will be so proud of you!

    I’m thinking of you and I’m looking forward to reading your book.

    Juliette xx

  35. Emily / Dec 15 2014 4:37 pm

    Dear Kate, you are wonderful. You have made me a better mother. You have made me a better person.
    Thank you.
    All my love,
    Emily

  36. josie / Dec 15 2014 11:33 pm

    Crikey I almost went for the don’t-know-what-to-say cop out!
    I won’t forget you Kate.

  37. Anita Mathias / Dec 16 2014 2:40 pm

    Brilliant, beautifully written made me cry. Oh chemo, won’t you come through once more?
    I have recently had surgery for colon cancer, and am debating accept offered chemo or no chemo? There’s no evidence that there are any cancer cells left, though they might be….

  38. Richard Heaton / Dec 16 2014 3:36 pm

    Dear Kate
    What a beautiful, moving and wise article. Thank you. With very best wishes from your many friends, supporters and admirers at the Cabinet Office – you are truly inspirational.
    Richard Heaton

  39. Sandra / Dec 17 2014 9:28 am

    Dear beautiful, bright and brave Kate,

    your writing matters!

    I wish you a peaceful onward journey. People don’t live or die, people just float.

    Love from a stranger,
    Sandra

  40. belle foot / Dec 19 2014 8:58 am

    Dear Kate, to cut the chase, you are wonderful. My older sister sits somewhere near to the middle of your spiral and so for over 15 years I have relished tales of Kate Gross’ successes and exploits. The naughtier of which often delivered through terrible impression that always made you sound like Zippy from Rainbow! I have even met you on a few very special occasions.
    In the last few years I have shared in my sisters pains and frustrations. Her anger at the Nuisance, the injustice and often at your macabre humour. Her quiet moments of heartbreak when she shares her fears and love for you.
    And of course I have followed you in your own words here (and in the book, amazing achievement!)
    Because someone in the centre of your spiral is also at the centre of mine, we are overlapping concentric circles like pebbles scattered into a pond. And your ripples travel much further than you know.
    With much much love,
    A sister of the Coven x

  41. Adelaide Doran / Dec 19 2014 8:24 pm

    I have been reading your blog over the last few months during the nights when I am awake feeding my baby. You are an incredible lady, I think about you all the time & hoping for you as with each day we get closer to Christmas that you get to see the faces of your knights on Christmas morning.
    Adelaide

  42. K / Dec 21 2014 10:43 pm

    Kate – please accept these words from an admirer from across the Channel (on ‘the continent’). I am one of the army of followers you have who have never met you. I hope you’ve felt the collective weight of us on your shoulders willing that you’re able to leave this world ‘satisfied’ you’ve created happy memories for O & I. And B too. What a blessing to have the family you have, even if it wasn’t for as long as it should be. I’m suffering many possible symptoms of the Nuisance and I’ve ignored them for too long. Your story has inspired me to get myself tested so please accept my most gracious thanks for pushing me to where I need to go. I heard this song on the radio this week and it made me think of you (Jeff Buckley: Satisfied Mind).

    God bless and sweet dreams Kate. From K x

  43. Sue / Dec 26 2014 11:07 pm

    I count my blessings.

  44. ben / Dec 26 2014 11:27 pm

    A sublime beauty and an aching majesty to all your recent musings, but this one in particular. Privileged to have known you, however fleetingly, through here. A sacred soul who will be missed

  45. Naomi simington / Dec 27 2014 8:04 am

    How humbling and beautifully written…. I hope to learn from your wisdom, may we all live for the moment and not in the make believe. Thank you for your words and all blessings for you and your family

  46. grahart / Dec 27 2014 9:01 am

    Reblogged this on grahart.

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