If Christmas Feels Different This Year, You’re Not Alone

Weekend Reflections: 13th–14th December

This weekend felt like a quiet tug-of-war between holding it together and letting myself feel everything.

Saturday 13th December brought a small pocket of normality. Maya’s big brother Jerome came to visit with his girlfriend Sophie, filling the room with familiar voices and warmth. Their presence gave me something precious — permission to step away briefly. I managed a quick swim, nothing fancy, just enough water and silence to remind my body that it still exists too.

“Self-care is not selfish. You cannot pour from an empty cup.”

That short break mattered more than I can explain. I need those moments so I can continue to show up for Maya, hour after hour, day after day.

In the afternoon, Terry took over so I could attend our work Christmas party in Folkestone. A sit-down meal, starting at 6pm — a rare chance to feel like my old self among colleagues, laughter, and clinking glasses. I was back at GOSH by 10:15pm, and although it was genuinely lovely to see everyone, it wasn’t a full escape.

For the entire six hours I was away, messages kept coming — updates about Maya’s crying, her discomfort, the things that can’t be switched off just because I’ve stepped outside the ward.

My husband Terry struggles deeply with seeing Maya like this. And who wouldn’t? Before hospital, she was running through life — literally — pranking nurses, singing at the top of her lungs, dancing without a care. Now she can’t turn her neck on her own. She can’t lift her arm. She can’t move her leg. She can’t even say “Mum” or “Dad.”

That contrast is unbearable most of the time.

Sunday 14th Dec was meant to be quieter — a day of chilling out. Maya received the most thoughtful gift from Tina: a precious teddy that reads ’Twas The Night Before Christmas. What made it even more special was knowing this teddy had once been Tina’s as a child.

Acts like this remind me daily how kind people can be, especially when words fall short. The thoughtfulness, the sharing of something personal — it means more than people realise.

We had a plan that day, the nurse and I. A practical plan for hoisting Maya safely, especially as OT and PT don’t work weekends. The out-of-hours team only covers airway management — secretions, suctioning — not mobility. We were ready, prepared, hopeful for a smooth day.

But hospital life doesn’t always allow plans to stay intact.

After Terry headed back to Kent, a new neighbour arrived on the ward — another patient, similar in age to Maya. The care plan involved chemotherapy followed by radiotherapy for a brain tumour. Not long after settling in, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. A crash call. Then another. First, the child collapsed on the floor. Then seizure-like activity. Everything escalated quickly, ending in emergency brain surgery.

Once again, Lion Ward became intense, heavy, urgent. Our hoisting plan disappeared instantly — rightly so. The nurses were stretched beyond measure, juggling multiple crises in a single shift. Watching them work under that pressure is humbling.

As the ward settled back into its uneasy rhythm, I found myself thinking about Christmas. Perspective hits differently here.

Will it be just me, Terry, and Maya in cubicle 9 on Christmas Day? It looks likely. The rest of the family may have to celebrate at home with the grannies without us this year.

“The hardest part of loving someone is watching them suffer and knowing you can’t take it away.”

As Christmas approaches, I hope we all pause — even briefly — to carry a little more compassion, a little more patience. Not everyone’s December is filled with sparkle and joy. Some of us are holding hope quietly in hospital rooms, doing the best we can with what we’ve been given.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

If you’ve followed Maya’s journey and ever wondered how you could help, a small act like a £100 monthly donation for three to six months can ease some of the practical burdens while we focus on fighting childhood cancer with her.

Please PayPal to dellanie_nash@yahoo.co.uk (as a gift)

Santander

D C Nash

Sort code 09-01-36

Account 4957 9984

Reference: Maya’s Journey

T-h-a-n-k Y-o-u-A-l-l.

Every message, thought, and act of generosity is felt deeply — thank you.