A good ending in December

I am not a finisher. Finishing is not something I do well, if at all. I have good ideas, occasionally brilliant ones, and I start them with such gusto and enthusiasm, but somewhere, about half-way through, my brain slows, the drive disappears, a new amazing thought is born and I start another soon to be doomed project.

             As a little girl, I loved colouring and can today see the colouring book of Cinderella, each page started so carefully, colours chosen thoughtfully, blending precisely, but always unfinished as I impatiently moved on, always promising myself to return to complete the picture, but never doing so. I loved reading too; 'What Katy Did', 'Black Beauty', 'Heidi', 'Little Women'. I read long after the lights had been put out, secretly hiding the torch under the mattress and hoping I wouldn't be discovered, but even then, I hated getting to the end of the story, hated the characters fading with the last page and sometimes started the book again before the ending so that I didn't have to face the loss of the story from my bedtime imaginings.
            I've lost count of the promising projects I've started that have never reached completion. I have decided what I've wanted to do, bought all the equipment, set everything out on a table and committed the necessary time, but somehow, well, they never quite made it to being finished. Half-finished baby bootees, delicate hats, a two legged giraffe and a bunny with one ear are currently lying forlorn and abandoned in the knitting basket awaiting a surge of enthusiasm that I doubt will ever come.
            Mum was a dressmaker, a seamstress, a tailor and garments whizzed off the machine at lightning speed. She tried, she really tried to teach me how to choose a pattern, the right material, (which we usually bought from Stockport indoor market); to cut, pin, tack and eventually sew seams, darts and hems. But I was a lost cause, the instructions incomprehensible and the machine uncontrollable, causing tears and frustration. Either the material would end up screwed up into a bundle and discarded to the back of a cupboard, or Mum's patience would expire and she would sit late into the night putting right the wonky stitches and turning my disappointing efforts into something beautiful and wearable. Recent unfinished projects have included some decoupage, memory box frames, the family tree, cushion covers, curtains and a button picture.
          I never quite managed to finish primary school either. My brother was born at the end of the summer term in my last year at Poynton County Primary School. In those days, a new mother, especially one as old as my Mum, (she was forty two ) had to stay in hospital for two weeks to recover and there was no such thing as Maternity/Paternity leave, so, as Dad couldn't have time off work, I had to stay at home with Mum and the new baby once she came out of hospital, and thus I missed the last two weeks of school. I don't think I was particularly bothered then, but I can see that it set a pattern that still continues to this day.

Of course I have finished things and I have seen things through to the end; things like degrees, qualifications, assignments and I have been part of many endings; two marriages, the deaths of my parents, moving houses and, of course, the untimely ending of my son's life. However, because I'm not a finisher, I also won't let go of people that I love or with whom I have a relationship. I still have friends from primary school, high school, college, university and my adult life. I have been best friends with Mar Mar (the boys' nick name for her) for 41 years and intend to grow very old with her friendship in my life.

        For me, relationships do not end, but travel in circles or ellipses, as we orbit around each other, the spaces between us moving closer and away again, sometimes following their own pathway and occasionally, deliciously coming together in a perfectly synchronised dance. With the boys' father, the circles have, at times, been distant and fraught, but we are still in touch, still almost friends, in a relationship that continues and is mostly positive.
 Because of this inbuilt determination and a deep fear of endings, I vowed that when Mark died, I would somehow find a way to hold on to the relationship I had with him. We were close, Mark and I, two halves of a whole, a male and female version of  an entire entity. We complimented and clashed in equal measure, each hurt by the same things, each passionate about education, the social systems, injustice and religion, even if we came at things from totally opposing views, arguing both fairly and unfairly until we either agreed to disagree, or one of us backed down, laughed, or, in my case, cried. We were totally in tune; he was my harmony, I, his accompaniment. I knew from the first word he said on the phone how he was feeling, knew immediately when something was wrong or when he was desperate to talk. I ached for him when his relationships failed and his hurt over his Dad pained me too. I so miss that physical relationship, the hugs, the punches on the arm, the squeezes from behind, his head on my shoulder, and his hand in mine just before he tried to crush my fingers. I miss the himness of him!

  Since his death, every day has been about surviving the catastrophic loss of him and about learning to live around the hole he left behind. I have no closure. I don't want closure. I never want to not miss him, never want to not hurt with the pain of losing him. I can't imagine his birthday or anniversary passing by without tears or a desperate longing for him to be here with us. Every holiday, every bit of family news, every wedding, Christening, new baby or death will happen without him and that is so unfair. He is and will continue to miss out on so much. And so I have to find ways of not leaving him behind in 2011, but to bring him with us into the now and the future. My relationship with my son didn't end with his death at that junction in Taipei. How could it? It continues through my relationships with his friends, his father and brother, the music he loved, the places he visited, the photographs and the scenes that play in a continuous loop in my head. His tree at the National Memorial Arboretum thrives and grows straight and true, a living memorial to my son; the baby son of one of his friends, who carries his name and will be told the silly Mark stories when he is old enough; the girlfriends, who are still in touch and who are who they are because they, for a little while, had my son in their lives. We walked the Thames Path, the whole 186 miles of it, in memory of Mark. ( Oh, and, although we finished the walk, I never completed the blog-typical!). I keep in touch with the principal of the Catholic orphanage Mark was involved with in Taiwan and this year Matt and I are running the London Marathon. We are raising money for Children with Cancer UK, as I have a child battling cancer in my school, but  we are also doing it for Mark, to run with his energy, his passion and his spirit and to hear him say,'Well done, Mum, Matt, I knew you could do it', as we cross the finishing line.

No, I am not a finisher and I'm grateful for that in my relationships, but this blog and the marathon, I am determined to complete before I begin the next thing, which is a little idea already germinating in my head of writing four short stories, one based on each decade of Mark's life; fiction perhaps, but Mark, Matt and I will identify with the characters and events and know that the woven threads are really Mark's story; a story that can never be finished while there is someone who says his name, reads this blog or the stories, smiles at a Mark memory, does an act of kindness in his name, or whilst his tree continues to grow, his brother skis and composes music in his name and whilst I continue to breathe and carry him with me in my head and heart.

Twelve months ago, after the most awful of Christmases, I decided to grab the 21st of each month and do something positive with it, before it threatened to swallow me up in the trauma and misery of its significance. We have done some amazing things this year and writing about them has allowed me to explore the memories, to trace the details and share my boy with you so that you too have had a relationship with Mark through my woven words. And so he lives on, this amazing boy who shaped and changed all he met and will, I believe, continue to do so. I have now finished all twelve blogs, have a new project in my head, but an ending? No way.............. it is most definitely NOT finished.