I am not ashamed to say that I have never worked in August, not one day of it, ever. And I probably never will. August is holiday time for me and this year we have had seven long and glorious weeks off school. I am never short of things to fill up the time, from catching up with friends I haven't seen for a while, decluttering every room, enjoying the garden, exploring new places for coffee, filing hundreds of letters into their correct place and actually going on holiday. This year I have thrown in new glasses, acupuncture sessions, long, almost daily walks, some decorating and a couple of tentative visits into school to collect the debris from the end of term, delete hundreds of emails and make a long, fluid list of things to do next term.
We also finally updated our wills, something we had been meaning to do for a couple of years. We had obviously made provision for all our boys, but Mark's death changed that. I still find it incredibly hard to tell someone I have never met before. Each word in the sentence, 'Mark died. He was killed by a taxi in Taiwan four years ago,' is a thud to my stomach, making the tears form, my voice choke and the listener reach for the tissues. The meeting with the solicitor was no exception, but it was the sight of Mark's signature on one of the pieces of paper that brought me to my knees. He was here, he lived, he was and the proof was there on that document, no longer valid, but evidence of my crazy boy, for once being serious in his signature. It took me a while to recompose myself so that we could draw up the new will, this time not including my firstborn child. Another cruel reality we have to deal with as bereaved parents.
We did actually go away too. The first was a weekend in Yorkshire, based in Skipton. We walked, climbed, tripped and wandered across God's country, enjoying the scenery and the company. A refreshing short break. Our week in Majorca was a complete contrast. The warmth of the sun, the sophistication of the hotel, the velvety coolness of the pool, the cheeky morning cocktails and delicious Mediterranean food in the evening, relaxed and refreshed the three of us. I read three books that week, all involving the death of a child in one way or another and I strangely found that comforting too. Others have gone through this, either in real time or in fiction and most find a way to survive, some changing direction, some changing a partner or job, some forgiving, some requiring care for all sorts of illnesses and conditions, and all of them struggling with a loss so catastophic that the fall out contaminates anything that was once normal. I find safety in such writing, a sense of seeing 'me' in the characters, the situations, the relationships. It's not my story, but it is a shadow of it and it helps me feel not quite so alone.
Tanned and calmer, we arrived home to more of what we'd been doing before we went away, enjoying small achievements and progress with the house and garden. And, because we had been away, Matt suggested that we went to Coventry for our 21st 'thing'. It was hardly exciting or thrilling, but we went anyway. After a little bit of confusion and conflict with the SATNAV, we managed to park by the Cathedral and headed there. When Matt was in Year 8, the RE project was 'Churches'. We drew them, photographed them inside and out, labelled bits of them, designed new windows for them, wandered round them and got bored with them. But he also visited Coventry Cathedral, both with us and with the school. He got an 'A' for that project and I have it somewhere in the detritus of keepsakes. And now we were back, not because it held any connection to Mark but because Matt suggested it and, in the absence of a better idea, we agreed.
One cannot fail to be stunned by the majesty, beauty and sincerity of the new Cathedral, as it takes its place adjunct to the battered, broken and splintered remains of the original Anglican Gothic building.
We entered the vast space and looked up, as everyone must do, to the vaulted ceiling, but then our eyes were drawn to the elongated windows of light, their hues casting rainbow prisms on the stone floor. Huge tablets of stone hung from the angled brick walls, inscribed with the 'I am' statements Jesus made about himself. There is supreme strength in these statements, a desire to collapse against them and let them hold us in our human weakness
We wandered, we whispered and we walked softly to the Lady Chapel to light a candle for Mark and for the children of other bereaved parents; people I wish I had never had cause to meet, children I should never have got to know through their parents, but without whom I would not survive. They know, understand and care and, more importantly, they talk about my boy, say his name and remember significant dates. Lighting a candle says I am thinking about you, praying for you and keep you alive in my heart and I always will. I haven't forgotten you, Mark, as if I ever would or could, my precious boy.
The tag line of the new cathedral is 'Reconciliation'. It is meant to offer hope and forgiveness for the bombing raid on Coventry in 1945 that destroyed the Cathedral and much of the city. There are pottery candle sticks made by German Jews, beautiful testimonies by visiting German school children, and a brutal cross made from two burned splinters of wood. There was also a haunting metal head of Christ. It was made from the wreckage of a motor vehicle.
Someone had died in that crash and yet, out of that tragedy, the strength and compassion of a risen Christ offered peace and hope. I don't know if the sculptor had lost a loved one but she certainly poured love and emotion into her work and it helped me at least. Our exit route was filled with Peace Cranes in every colour of the rainbow. Again, out of the failings and cruelty of man against man, soldier against civilian, and bomb against childhood innocence, arose a thing of beauty, a symbol of hope, resilience and, yes, reconciliation.
Knowing that Mark had died a tragic death alone in a foreign city haunts me and, if I let it, the loop of imagined visuals would drive me into insanity. The speeding car, my boy trusting the pedestrian crossing, the murderous impact, my boy being thrown into the cold night air and the cold-blooded thud of his broken body hitting the taxi windscreen before slamming into the road, are too horrific to allow them head space. But, I promised myself that some good would come out of this; his life would not be wasted in anger and recriminations. We would honour his memory, his joy of living, his sense of adventure and his faith. It has not be easy in any sense, but, we have built lasting relationships with Mark's friends; some have become family and I love them to bits; we walked the Thames Path; I am running the London Marathon next year; Matt and I have become incredibly close, I am enjoying blogging; I have found some amazing bereaved friends through Compassionate Friends and I believe I am now a kinder, more compassionate and gentler person, who has a deeper empathy and understanding of death, loss, madness, and family and love. Like the old cathedral, my 'before' life lies in ruins, but, this new life is beginning to regain some colour, some hope and sometimes it is OK.
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