Open Writing

The punishing rhythm of anxiety and relief is diluted by half, now that James' check-ups are less frequent. Tentatively, we ease back into more ordinary life.

We take David and a couple of his friends to Oasis Holiday Park for a long weekend, to celebrate his sixteenth birthday. James brings a friend along, as well, and they all have a fantastic time. We hardly see them, apart from when they swarm in and strip the fridge and cupboards of food and drink, leaving wet towels and sweaty socks in their wake. The freedom and activities available are perfect for active teenagers. Howard and I collapse in a little heap and wonder where their childhoods have gone. I can't help but reflect on the two years since David's fourteenth birthday.

With OFSTED behind us, I resume my management role and add ICT coordinator to my other responsibilities. Luckily, I have David at home to help me master new computer skills and software before I have to show the other staff what to do. He huffs with exasperation and demonstrates with blur-fast fingers. I have to beg his patience to talk me through, as I fumblingly attempt to follow his instructions.

We all try to recover our equilibrium at school. The build-up was so stressful and of such duration that we're left feeling deflated. Everyone moves more slowly. Laughter and motivation are muffled by a blanket of apathy. Now there's an 'action plan', as a result of our inspection, and a steady stream of new initiatives but it's difficult to generate much enthusiasm.

'James, there's a letter for you.' I hold the envelope out to my son who's scrounging in the fridge. 'Tea will be ready soon. Don't eat too much.' I go back to the food preparation.

'What is this?' James frowns over the contents of the letter in his hand. He reads it through again then drops it on the kitchen counter and heads for his bedroom.

Scanning the page, I feel a little shiver of equal parts pride and concern. I follow James. He won't look at me.

'What's the problem?' I ask.

'They want to give me the Chief Scout's Meritorious Conduct Medal, Mum, for bravery.' He grimaces at me. 'I haven't done anything brave. I haven't done anything anyone else wouldn't have done.'

'But you have been brave, James,' I say, gently. I long to rest my hand on his shoulder but this son doesn't like to be touched. 'You didn't hide away. When you were ill, you still struggled into school, as often as you possibly could. You were brave enough to have the amputation and didn't give up just because you lost your leg. What about the thirty-mile walk you guys did this summer?'

That raises a small smile. James, David and three of their friends had planned, organised and undertaken the walk as part of their Queen Scout challenge. One of the lads wasn't in the scouts but wanted to go along. They had great fun staging all their photos with this boy appearing in different guises in the background on every one; a sort of 'Where's Daniel?' instead of'Where's Wally?'

'But they want to do an article in the newspaper, Mum,' James looks down, his voice drops, 'with a photograph of me, in my scout uniform.'

Most of the boys, who'd started in the Beaver and Cub scouts when James was little, had given up. It was seen as babyish or uncool or they'd gone on to join other things. James and David and a couple of their friends had stayed on because they loved the trips. Their leader was a tough old ex-policeman who expected a lot out of them and got it. He also gave them more freedom then they had with their parents. Similar to the Duke of Edinburgh awards, the Queen Scout award is a challenge and they've nearly achieved it. But I know, and James knows, he'll be teased if this gets in the paper.

'Think of all the people who've helped you through this, James, your friends, the scouts, the people at the Para Olympics, the doctors, your teachers, so many people. This would be a chance for you to thank them publicly. Who knows, someone else out there, going through cancer, possibly facing an amputation, might read this article and have new hope.'

I can see the battle he's having with himself and know he'll be brave enough for this task, too.

Mum and Kenneth are delighted to hear about James' award. It's gratifying when other people recognise what grandparents have always known, that their grandchildren are wonderful. We spend pleasant minutes discussing David's excellent GCSE results and the recent concerts he's performed in with various groups. But Mum's distracted.

'I've heard from Delith.'

This would normally be headline news. Australia is so far away and Howard's sister, Delith, is so busy with three young children and her singing and teaching commitments, letters are never as frequent as Delith or her mum would like. Something's wrong.

'She's still not well and the doctors can't seem to figure out what the problem is.' Mum frowns. Surely, this can't be another tragedy. We must have had our quota for the time being.

'She's constantly tired.' This is definitely not like Delith, usually bubbling with energy.

'And she's having awful pain in her joints, especially her hands.' For a singing teacher, who has to play the piano all day, this is a serious problem.

'Could it be some kind of arthritis?' I wonder out loud. Certainly, Mum and Howard have had problems with this.

'They're doing tests. One doctor mentioned Lupus. I guess we just have to wait and see.' Not a happy prospect. I make a mental note to try to find out more about Lupus.