Open Writing

James sees quite a few different doctors at the end of February and is passed fit by all of them, thankfully. We are invited to Sheffield to watch the Para Olympic track team training. It's reassuring and humbling to see these dedicated people overcome every obstacle. James still isn't able to wear his prosthesis (artificial leg) yet, following his surgery, but that doesn't stop him joining in for an hour and a half's aerobics on one leg. The organisation hopes to have 2000 athletes to compete in the 2000 Olympics in Australia; an exciting possibility.

At home, James sticks to the demanding exercise routine for a while but doesn't appear to be as keen as we are for him to take up this challenge. He has a heavy load of commitments already and perhaps can't face taking on one more.

The first weekend in March, we travel to London to share in our niece's dedication. This is a little bit like a christening, in the Baptist church. It's fantastic to visit with our larger family, as well as taking in the sights of the capital city, a trip to the theatre and some nice meals. The following Sunday is Mothering Sunday and David, toying with the idea of becoming an atheist, finds himself in church for the second week running.

A week later, we take friends with us to watch a mutual acquaintance perform in an amateur operatic version of South Pacific. It's great fun and we have a lovely evening until we return to the car park and discover the car isn't there. It's a very odd feeling to have your car stolen. We walk up and down all the rows several times before we can actually believe it. At least no one was hurt. We're with friends, who need to get home, so we phone the police and get a taxi.

Two days later, at 5:50 am, we're woken with a sickening start by a phone call from the police. They tell us our car has been abandoned, in the middle of a busy street in the centre of Leeds, without any wheels. We're asked to move it immediately, as it's causing an obstruction and they think the thieves might return to burn it out.

Our sleep-fuzzed minds aren't sure how to do that from forty minutes' drive away at that hour but, thankfully, the AA manage to move it to a garage for us and Howard's insurance company delivers a hire car to our home by the afternoon. James has another clear cancer check that same day and compared to that, a stolen car seems inconsequential.

Gradually, life begins to become more normal. For Howard's fortieth birthday present, I engaged a gardener to design and landscape our small weed-ridden eyesore of a vegetable patch. Now that spring is here, he's able to turn his drawings into reality. We feel able to go out more with friends again, to the cinema, for walks, etc and our various work commitments occupy more of our thoughts. We start to plan in earnest for the special summer holiday James wants in America.

The agreement we made with my family in the US, when Howard and I got married, was that we would try to visit them every other year, if possible, and my parents would visit us in the alternate years. This has worked out very well. What we've lost in frequency we've made up for in intensity of time spent together.

In our early years of marriage, my family would often send money to help us with our air fares. Once we were in America, my relatives would put us up, feed, entertain and drive us about. It was often cheaper to go there than to a holiday spot in Europe. When the boys were in junior school they once complained about having to go to the States all the time because all their friends got to go camping in France.

On these biannual visits, everyone would make an effort to see us, often taking time off from their lives. For years I also wrote regular long newsy letters, which I photocopied then added individual notes on the bottom. These I sent to my relatives in America and to Howard's siblings. We hadn't realised how our visits and letters had enabled us to remain close as a family, despite the distance, until Howard and I were looking at houses. We knocked on the door of a possible purchase only to discover one of Howard's cousins lived there. I didn't recognise her. It was clear that Howard knew my cousins and what they were up to better then we knew his.

For their first visit, my dad and Nicki brought both my brothers and my stepsister and hired a camper van for the boys to sleep in. James hadn't been born yet, so we just about managed to accommodate everyone. The second time my parents brought my grandma and I can still hear her saying 'No-nee, no-nee' to James, who took his first steps for her, while she babysat. I was quite jealous about that.

Over the years we've had many brilliant holidays with my family in five different states and Canada. Weddings have been planned so that we could be there. Our boys have been able to try skiing, visit Disneyworld, canoe in the midst of alligators, experience the log cabin of my summers and see a baseball game amongst other experiences.

For various reasons, I hadn't been able to go to either of my beloved grandmothers' funerals. It feels horribly unreal and isolating to be bereaved from a distance. There's no one around you to share your memories or loss. When you are away from people you love, they somehow stay the same in your mind, like a photo. It's always surprising to visit my family and find they have gone on without me. In my grandmothers' particular 'photos' in my mind, they're still there, in the homes I remember from my childhood.

I can understand how hard it must have been for my family to read in my letters about James' illness, treatment and surgeries. They need to see us, to wrap us in the love they long to share. This holiday we're planning is important for all of us.