It may be hard to believe, but my worst days of 2020 happened long before the words COVID, pandemic or lockdown breached my lips. They happened in the first few weeks of the year. The hope of a new beginning and fresh start crushed by the anguish and heartbreak of loved loss. 

Don’t get me wrong, the pandemic most certainly challenged me. I was laid off from work due to the crushing blow to the event industry, became completely dependent on an irregular income, and spent month after month watching endless garbage on the tube while questioning my purpose and value. But in comparison to January, the rest of my year was a breeze.

I’ve written about my Grammie many times before, and am positive she will grace pages of my content forever more for one unchangeable reason – she was my fucking Queen. Who would be absolutely horrified of my use of profanity – but strong women deserve strong words and my Grammie was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever known.

I learned she was in critical care mere moments before my dear Aunt Laureen’s visitation. It had been a day from hell. The long drive to Ottawa made longer with a car breakdown, rental car lineups, and rush hour traffic. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I was tired, I was scared, and I was angry. Then I was hit with the news. Before the month was over, I’d lose my beloved Grammie too.

But this story isn’t about her passing – even as we approach the one year anniversary that wound feels still to raw to expose. Rather this is a story about Christmas.

You see, for me, Christmas was always Grammie. As a young girl my favourite Christmas memory was the Christmas Eve sleepover with my Grammie. We’d snuggle in bed with books, or puzzles, wake up far too early with the excitement of Santa’s visit, snack on cookies at 6am while we played endless games of cards or backgammon to pass the time. Thomas would eventually wake and join us mostly for the cookies, as we camped out in my bedroom waiting for a reasonable hour to wake Mom and Dad, Mike and Matt and dive into presents. 

As the years went by, many of our Christmas traditions adapted. I grew too old and too big to share a bed with my elderly Grammie, so I slept on the floor, then in the next room. I stopped waking up 2 hours too early, but Grammie always came prepared with a tin of overbaked Pillsbury Doughboy cookies, or underbaked brownies, just in case.

I’m not quite sure when I became so adamant that Christmas lights and celebrations should begin no earlier than December 1^st. Likely sometime during my teenage years. It became engrained in my head that any earlier indication of the holiday season simply ruined the excitement of the December countdown. So I waited patiently, changing the channel from that Christmas movie, scoffing at the neighbours with decorations up. A Grinch until the first, when without missing a beat an Advent calendar would arrive from Grammie, signalling the start of my Festive Celebrations.

My November “Grinchiness” was Grammie’s favourite button to push. She’d call every time she passed a house all lit up, or heard a Christmas song play on the radio. “Just calling to say it’s time to celebrate Christmas, there are decorations up all down my street”. I’d laugh and reply; “December 1^st Grammie, we have to wait until December 1^st”.

Aging was not easy for Grammie. She was in constant pain from her arthritis and unable to drive, but I refused to let her give up Christmas. So when Grammie decided it was just too much for her to put up a tree anymore, I dragged her old behind to Lowes, carted off the best tree we could find, lugged it up the flight of stairs to her duplex apartment and set it up single-handedly. 

Christmas was Grammie.

But then this year, there was no Grammie.

If COVID has given me too much time for one thing – it’s given me far too much time to cry. An over-emotional train wreck from the start, it takes little more than a commercial with babies, or dogs to cause a steady stream of tears down my cheek.

I’ve cried about Thomas, Grandpa, Ruth, Laureen, but more than anyone this year I’ve cried about Grammie. 

When October hit, with no bright light at the end of 2020’s tunnel, only bleak promises of a much worse second wave of this devastating virus, I made one drastic decision. All restraints were coming off, the Grinch had left the building,  and Ms. Corey Anne Deeth would celebrate Christmas in November. 

(A special shoutout to Mike – for egging on my insanity and delivering an Advent Calendar to start November 1st)

 New to the concept of Christmas in November, I made sure to dip my toes before my full throttle cannon ball. We started with lights for the balcony, lit scented candles and watched hours (nay DAYS) of cheesy Hallmark movies. The second week we set up our fake tree and started our shopping. By the third week my car radio station was permanently set to Sirius’ “Holly”, our pup Ayva had her brand-new Christmas attire, and I was crossing the last couple names off my Christmas list.

Then a funny thing happened – November was the first month of 2020 I could think of my Grammie without the meltdown. I thought of her looking down on me, certain I was having a complete breakdown. But more than anything I hope she saw I felt freed and happy.

There was no Grammie this year at Christmas and barring nothing short of a Christmas miracle, or divine intervention, she won’t be at the next one either. Luckily she raised a brood of selfless, loving, strong, brilliant and stubborn children/grandchildren and surrounded by this crazy beautiful family of mine I will forever feel her presence.

I know most definitely I will always miss her the most during the holidays, but at least she is in great company.