Page 2 of A Different Kind Of December
He’s my rock. My world. He makes me who I am, a much better person than I could have ever hoped to be, and yet, here I am, watching him sleep after waking from a dream about the other love of my life.
Sean McCarthy.
He doesn’t come to me often these days. But when he does, I know.
I can feel him, smell him.
On me.
I slide out of bed and head for the bathroom. I do what I need to do, wash my hands, and lift my hoodie from the hook where I left it last night as I slide my feet into my UGGs and head out onto the landing.
Our bedroom is at the very back of our house, and the kids’ rooms are all towards the front. Kiks is the only one with her door open, so I take a peek inside to check on her. She’s our sensitive child and has recurring nightmares. They started when we explained to the kids about my past, about Sean, Baby M, and Beau. She knows about Tamara, how she died, and that Cam was shot...and she worries about all of it.
I feel guilty about this. The fact that my past has impacted on my daughter’s peace of mind. Given a choice, I would’ve protected all of my kids and only told them what I felt was necessary, but there’s something out there called the internet, and we thought that it was best we told them the truth and answered their questions ourselves.
Becks lifts his head from where he’s curled at the bottom of Kiki’s bed and looks towards me, his tail wagging while the rest of him remains still.
My daughter’s dark hair is spread out around her as she lies with her face buried in the pillow. A black T-shirt covers her skinny frame, and I watch her shoulders move up and down as she breathes.
Kiks, Lu, and George will all be turning fifteen after Christmas, and our house is a hive of teenage hormonal tension. Kiks probably causes the least drama, unless of course, Lu chooses to pick a fight with her.
I head down to the kitchen and make myself a coffee. Our other dog, Rooney, isn’t in his bed either, and I assume he’s with one of the other kids. George probably, since Lu and Harry both complain when the dogs lie on their beds, which, considering I have a no dogs upstairs rule, should never actually happen. But I’m only their mum, no one ever bloody listens to me.
The whole world thinks I’m some kind of superwoman who’s battled on through tragedy to build an empire and become a world-renowned philanthropist. My kids and my dogs, though, couldn’t give a monkey’s about any of that and have very selective hearing when it comes to listening to anything I say.
I sometimes wonder if they would listen if I stamped my feet and shouted, “Do you know who I am?” Probably not. They’d all be wearing their noise-reducing headphones and not hear a word.
Or, they’d just blatantly ignore me.
I smile to myself as I head to the mudroom, pull on Cam’s quilted Barbour jacket, and grab a blanket from the basket I keep by the back door. If only they knew about the things I used to get up to. I used to live such a rock-star life. I could never confess to my kids some of the things I’ve done over the years. Some of them when I wasn’t much older than they are now. Lu would disown me, Kiks would pass out in shock, George would just go into denial and Harry? Well, I might just get a fist bump from him. He usually has my back.
I collect my coffee from the kitchen and head out to the back patio. I sit in one of the swinging two-seaters and cover myself with the blanket. It’s absolutely bloody freezing, but no matter what the weather’s like, this is my favourite spot to come and think out my thoughts.
Today is the first of December. Seventeen years ago on this very day, I lost the then love of my life in the most horrific of circumstances.
I lost my son. My sweet innocent baby boy, who never got to take a single breath.
I almost lost my own life, and for a long time after the accident, I wished that I’d been killed too.
This year though, I feel a little different about the anniversary of Sean and Beau’s deaths. It still hurts. It’ll always hurt. Not just today, but every day. I will forever feel that short, sharp stab to my heart the moment thoughts of them hit my conscience,thatwill never change, and I don’t want it to.
But after so long, I feel like I’ve finally accepted that I can’t change what happened on that cold icy day so many years ago. I’m not sure if I’ve justacceptedit or if I’ve gottenoverthe guilt of being the only survivor. The guilt of being able to move on, once again find love and have four beautiful children.
Do you ever get over something like?
They say that grieving is a process, and by ‘they’, I mean just about everyone I came into contact with when I first lost Sean. It got to the point where I not only wanted to end my own life, but that of every person who felt the need to talk me through the stages.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
Acceptance.
I’m not sure that there’s a hard and fast rule about the order in which you’re supposed to experience each of these, but I feel like finally, I’ve reached the last one.
