Open Writing

Two days later, it's results day. James allows me to drive him to school but I'm forbidden to get out of the car. These grades are so important for James' self esteem, to enable him to reclaim his life. He has the door open before I'm fully stopped.

'See ya later, Mum,' he calls over his shoulder.

'I'll wait here, shall I? You will come out and let me know how you've done, won't you?'

'Why do you need to know?' He's dancing on the spot, full of fear and excitement. He doesn't want the extra pressure of these results being important to anyone else.

'Because I care about you!' I try not to shout this at him. The ego-centricity of teenagers is staggering but I know I was probably the same. I flash back to the moment James told me I could no longer walk him to school, when he moved up to the juniors at seven years old. I know I shouldn't hold on so tight but it's very hard to let go.

He's earned an incredible 6 As, 3 A*s and a B in physics. James goes off to celebrate with his friends and I collapse from nervous exhaustion after sharing the news with everyone I know.

There is no rest, though. The next day James and I sit slumped side by side in the waiting room of Paediatric Oncology. We've already been for the x-rays; we just need the results - results that are infinitely more important than those we got yesterday. I scrutinise my son for signs of disease. He looks awful but then so do I. Slammed by grief after the high of our holiday, lifted by James' achievement, afraid of what the doctor might say, I wonder how much more my system can take.

It's good news, another month's respite. There's room in my brain now for all the errands we must run before school starts again next week. We pause for lunch out to celebrate.

'Where have you been?' David screams at us, when we walk in the house.
I've never seen him so wild. We'd phoned Howard with the good news, from the hospital but never thought about David. He'd worked himself up into a panic because we were so long, convinced the cancer had come back. Louise's sudden death had made such a possibility so much more real to him. I'm ashamed of my own ego-centricity now.

Two days later, I drop the boys off at Scammonden reservoir. It's early, about 8 am. They will be learning to sail with the scouts. The sun is shining and the day stretches before me, my mind already filling with things I have to do. I switch the radio on and listen in disbelief. The news is full of the death of Princess Diana.

I have to pull over. I can't breathe and tears are blurring my vision. She's the same age as Louise and all the loss I feel for my dear sister-in-law roars to the surface. William is the same age as I was when I lost my mother.

I pray for Diana's children.

*

Watching the royal family struggle to find the right response to the Princess' death, 1 was reminded of the impact a failed marriage can have on the wider family.

Just as my brother Keith prepared for his wedding to Monique, the marriage between my dad and Nicki came to an end. I had been shocked when I received a letter informing me of their impending divorce, even though I knew they'd been unhappy for years. Somehow a divorce reverberates through other marriages, threatening the trust they're based on. I'd written to them both imploring them to be sure, to seek help, but to no avail. Nicki joined Alcoholics Anonymous but it was too late and for the wrong reasons. There was too much pain and scar tissue between them.

Despite their personal troubles they both tried extremely hard to put aside their animosity for the sake of my brother's wedding. My dad, after years of suppressed grief and stress, had developed a medical condition which affected his ability to swallow. At times of particular stress, it would flare up. His total inability to eat anything and subsequent weight loss were the only obvious signs of his distress.

We stayed with Nicki in my parent's house. My dad had moved out to a small apartment, but we spent as much time as we could with him. It was a very snowy February and we enjoyed skiing, snowmobiling, sledging, tobogganing and even a horse-drawn wagon ride. This was in addition to the parties, rehearsal dinner and other family celebrations. Aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents came from all over to share in the joy. The wedding was held on Valentine's Day and was lovely.

As an extra treat my dad paid for us to have a night at the Inn on the Park hotel in Toronto, before we flew home. This was the hotel we'd had our
honeymoon in and it was fun, if a little strange, to be back there with our children. Nicki had driven us to Toronto and enjoyed taking in the sights with us.

In June, my dad came over to England. Among other things, we took him hiking in the Lake District. The exercise and scenery worked their healing power. He was totally exhausted and it was reassuring to watch him unwind and begin to rebuild his health. He was so tired; he actually fell asleep in the middle of David's fourth birthday party, surrounded by boisterous four- and five-year-old children.

We had lunch together; just the two of us, and Dad shared some of the trauma he'd been through with Nicki. She'd written me lengthy letters and had given us her side of things whilst we'd been over for the wedding. It was clear there would be no reconciliation.

My dad visited several times over the subsequent years, more frequently than usual and I was glad that he found our home to be a place of rest and retreat. He was just as sociable as ever though, which was brought home to us by an experience in the local pub. Saddled with young children, as we were, we seldom managed to go ourselves. But we went in with my dad and were floored when the bartender greeted him like a long lost friend and knew him by name.