Dear Allyson
Losing Allyson felt like something our family would never recover from, but she reminded us of the importance in carrying on traditions we loved
Exclusive | 3 min read | National Grief Awareness Week
Dear Allyson,
You always said I was the biggest kid at Christmas. I’d get so excited to have that first mince pie and make mulled wine with a cheap red and whatever spirits were in the cupboard.
As the festive season set in, I’d do my annual DVD audit, ready to watch every Christmas film we owned. And every year, I’d break my own 1st of December embargo and watch ‘Home Alone’ in the last week of November.
We loved sneaking the kids' Christmas stockings onto the bottom of their beds on Christmas Eve, from when they were babies until they were in their twenties. We’d wait in bed for them to wake up and excitedly bring their stockings through to tell us what they’d got, like we hadn’t put it all in there ourselves.
The boys dressed up at Christmas in 1995. Photo: Peter Houston
I’ve no idea when they figured out it was us and not Santa, but no one ever let on. No one thought those Christmas mornings would stop - why would we?
I woke up with you 30 Christmas mornings in a row and it was always the highlight of my year. We were just teenagers on our first one together, snogging at an under-18s disco and sneaking alcohol into house parties.
I showed up at your door late one night between Christmas and Hogmanay, went for a walk in the snow and made snow angels. You said that’s when you properly fell for me. Then you went to Hong Kong and I knew I’d fallen too because I missed you so much.
Reunited
Five months apart was more than enough for me. I followed you 6000 miles and we had our first Hong Kong Christmas in a small, unfurnished tenement flat above a dry cleaner. We were skint, but we filled that place with the finest ‘Made in Hong Kong’ decorations.
By the next December, we’d moved into your swanky civil service accommodations. The only one with a real oven, you invited anyone with nowhere to go to our place for Christmas dinner. We were like some paper-hat-wearing United Nations assembly, people far from home brought together so that no one felt Christmas had passed them by.
When Andrew and Duncan were born they were all the excuse I needed to truly embrace my inner Elf. Toys and trees and silly songs. We’d travel back to Scotland sometimes, a 14-hour flight, just so their grannies could see them on Christmas morning.
Moving back to Britain wasn’t easy and we missed so much about our expat life. But Christmas back in a cold place where everyone was excited about the Big Day was magical. Our baby girl Robyn later followed, completing our family.
When my dad took ill, we made the 250-mile road trip to him and Mum with Christmas in the boot of the car - turkey, stuffing, ham, sprouts, carrots, roasties, Christmas pudding and cake, stilton and port.
Diagnosis
When you became ill the following year, that drive was much more difficult. We went back and forth to the GP and hospital for your symptoms of bloating and discomfort in your abdomen. You had ultrasounds, allergy tests and tried diets for IBS and gluten intolerance.
It wasn’t until an emergency hospital admission much later that you were finally given a diagnosis of stage four ovarian cancer that had spread to other organs.
The first Christmas after your diagnosis, we stayed home, just the five of us. It wasn’t long after completing your first line of chemotherapy and our first ever Hogmanay in our pyjamas. It was difficult, but you were in remission and we felt lucky and hopeful.
Peter and Allyson in Christmas 2017. Photo: Peter Houston
But by the next Christmas, the cancer was back and there was less hope. We had shrunk our world down to just you, me and our children. We filled the same stockings we’d given our kids for decades, but this time you put a ‘Home Alone’ turtle dove in each to remind them you would be friends forever.
The future
When you went into East Cheshire Hospice in Macclesfield in late November 2018, there was a Christmas tree in the corridor and one morning you pointedly asked Robyn if we'd put ours up yet. We hadn't. We couldn’t think about trees or decorations, but you made it crystal clear that you dying shouldn't get in the way of us putting up the tree.
Two days later, on 11th December 2018, you were gone. The normal rituals of Christmas felt like a sick reminder of how different everything was for our family now. But the four of us did what you’d told us to, no matter how much it hurt, going out the day after we lost you to buy a tree.
And just like that, December the 11th became the day we’d buy your tree, fixed in the calendar, two weeks until Christmas and forever the day we lost you.
Allyson’s tree with turtle dove decorations. Photo: Peter Houston
That Christmas morning, we were still planning your funeral but still managed to swap presents. You had always given thoughtful, joyous, gifts. My first ukulele, a lino printing set, a unicycle. But the best Christmas present was the one you left behind for our first Christmas without you.
Close to the end, when I’d asked what was the point of me without you, you’d said, ‘your kids.’ That was it. No big speech, just two words were needed.
Foresight
You also told me to get on and live my life without you. ‘Don’t waste it.’ You said you knew I’d eventually be with someone else and that was OK. The only thing you asked was that I find someone you would like.
I have, Allyson.
In late 2020, Jo moved in and we decided to have two Christmas trees, one that we bought and decorated together and one that I bought on the 11th with the kids. The pandemic meant being apart last year, but I called Robyn from the garden centre and she chose your tree over FaceTime.
This Christmas, Robyn is back living with me and Jo. They get on so well it’s scary. Sometimes I feel like a spare part but that’s OK.
A few weeks ago, we were having tea one night and the two of them were making Christmas plans; how they’d decorate the house, what food and drink we’d get in, what should be on the Spotify playlist. It was the first time I’d felt any excitement about Christmas in more than three years.
Then Jo asked, ‘On the 11th, where are you going to buy Allyson’s tree?’ The floodgates opened as Robyn and I began to cry. Jo looked horrified that she’d upset us but it wasn’t upset. It was the thought that Jo, who’d obviously never met you, cared so much about what that tree has come to mean for us.
We cried because we realised that no matter what happens, or what Christmas looks like for our new patchwork family, you will always be remembered, loved and missed.
The thought of a Christmas tree without you will always hurt, Allyson, but every 11th of December, we’ll put your tree up and I promise you that we’ll never let Christmas pass us by.
All my love,
Peter
If you are struggling to cope with grief, there are support services, charities and resources that can help. Here are some you might find useful: Cruse, Sue Ryder bereavement community forums, Mind, and you can call The Samaritans 24 hours a day, 365 days a year on 116 123, or visit the website here.
We wish you peace and comfort this Christmas.
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