I don’t think I’m one to particularly hold onto a grudge.
No more than your average, in any case.
But sometimes I find myself sat-bolt-upright-angry at something that happened a year or two ago.
Usually the anger relates to moments lost – special milestones missed – and almost always they happened in lockdown.
Take last year’s school nativity play.
If I’d allowed to watch in person, I know the moment would have stayed with me forever – watching my middle boy act as lead robin with his little brother a baby robin by his side.
Lockdown brought with it the cancellation of many live shows – and on this occasion a decision was made to send a video link instead.
But it wasn’t the same and now the middle boy is too old to be in that school nativity.
It might sound small. And it is. But it’s just one example of a moment lost.
Lockdown was a time when most people acted according to guidelines.
And organisers can’t be blamed for doing what they were told was the right thing in the interests of keeping people safe.
But still, it grates.
Nativity play was not my greatest loss in lockdown
Examples like mine pale into insignificance when compared to the huge moments other people missed.
The elderly relatives who didn’t see loved ones because they were banned from visiting care homes for months.
The people whose last few moments alive were spent alone.
The loved ones who were not allowed to be with them.
Now there’s a pain that will last a lifetime.
I lost my dad in lockdown and I am thankful that the nurse at York Hospital let me speak to him as he neared his end, without a mask on, so he could see me and smile.
But I have no doubt his Parkinsons-related dementia spiralled so aggressively in part at least due to lockdown.
Initially, his friends stayed away for fear of passing on germs.
When his pals, who were closer to my age, realised he had been taken into a care home, they visited in full blue medical overalls and masks.
Perhaps it was necessary, but it was also deeply confusing for him.
Red tape and kindness in dad’s dying days
I hadn’t known him since I was two-years-old. I found him through a private investigator 12 years ago.
And in the end, when his health was failing, I tried my best to get him the care he needed.
Here again, so much was blamed on Covid.
I dealt with an array of people, from an inept social worker to a brilliant woman who fought for him to get a new wet room installed in his home, as if he was her own father.
And in the end, it’s the kindnesses I remember most of all.
That nurse on night watch who told me to take off my mask so he could see me; the one who said ‘go on, hold his hand,’ on that last night.
She might never know the importance of that act.
But for us both, my father and I, it offered what felt like redemption.
Everyone deserved that kindness. For in the last stages of life, what really is there to lose?
This year’s nativity will be one to remember
I told you my nativity story seemed insignificant.
Maybe it is.
What I do know is I’ll be the mum crying at the school nativity this year, catching the watery eyes of other parents, sharing connections and making memories.
And I’ll no doubt be crying at the Evening Telegraph’s inaugural Christmas Concert too, as the choirs of schools from Dundee join forces to melt our hearts.
Finally, we have somewhere to go.
For tickets, search Eventbrite for The Evening Telegraph Christmas Concert.
Conversation