People say that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. They say you should hold on to the things you treasure because you don’t know when it might disappear. Don’t ask me who these people are, I don’t know, but I do know that they’re right. The past month or so gave me a taste of that.
I was stood in the small bathroom in my student house in Plymouth. The tiles were cold, as always, and I was anticipating the warmth of a satisfying post-gym shower. Just as this dream was to become a reality my phone went off. A text from Mother. Looked like my chilly-feet dance was to be practiced some more. ‘In Saltash. Are you free?’. Odd. The Osborne family like to plan, when we do things we like a time, date and dress code…and then we turn up ten minutes early too. I shrugged it off as a visit to my sister and wiz back a quick text, ‘Just got back from the gym, having a shower and breakfast. Got the day off.’. A reply came back pretty quickly, ‘See you in a bit then.’. An ‘absolutely not’ moment for me here. Where was the chosen lunch venue? The estimated arrival times? I needed details! ‘Wait, what’s the plan? And please don’t just appear in my bedroom!’. In the past, my parents seemed to have forgotten how to knock, not just on a bedroom door but a front door too. The last time, my housemate and I thought we were being robbed, only for all to become clear after a brief call from mum, “We’re upstairs.”.
The soles of my feet had now become accustomed to the idea of frost bite as I waited for a response. ‘Have your shower, only popping by.’. Fine, I would have my sodding shower, assumedly they were having a techno-tantrum and were yet again struggling with the concept of a text more than five words long.
After this mild irritation had been soothed by a hot shower with a pressure that I can only imagine as being similar to that of someone peeing on you, I attempted to make contact with the mothership again. A phone call I decided was perhaps better, no small screens held at arms-length whilst an index finger attempted to tap out a decipherable message on the keypad of a genuine Nokia brick. A phone call would give quick responses. If she decided to pick up. She did not. Further attempts of contact to the parents also failed. I waited. Finally, I got some communication. I answered the phone to mum, “I’m at the door, can I come in?”. Mixed feelings of relief that she had not attempted another break in and trepidation set in.
She stood alone at the door. “Where’s dad?”. It was instant. The Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, the Thing 1 and Thing 2 to my life, Mum and Dad come to see me without the other being there too. “Where is he?”, I could feel the hysteria rising inside, like bubbles in a kettle about to boil. Dad’s made a habit of being ill, a brush with cancer, a kidney stone or two, a cheeky hernia. He likes to keep us on our toes, life becoming like the ‘next time…’ bit of Holby City. This was different though… no-one was prepared, we didn’t get the foreshadowing or diagnosis. “Dad’s not very well.”. Nope. Nu-uh. Absolutely not. The bubbles in my hysteria kettle reached boiling point, my head shaking from side to side. No. No. No.
The next time I saw Dad he was strapped up to a ventilator. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t open his eyes. He just lay with the world beeping, flashing and whirring around him through various medical equipment. This was possibly the most poignant time that I’ve felt what is, ultimately, the point to my post. Whilst the people say about things disappearing and what-not, they never say how you should go about appreciating such things. For me, and it may be different for you, it’s about not leaving things unsaid. How many times have you wanted to say something to someone and bottled it? Not wanting to look mad or seem desperate or have your feelings and opinions rejected. By not saying these things you put yourself in that position where you look back and think you could have done more. Now I’m not saying go and write love letters or ballads that profess your deepest emotions…unless you want to do that of course…but just don’t be afraid of what it is your feeling and say it.
My family don’t say ‘I love you’ much. Sometimes I’ll say it at the end of a phone call. Mum says it back, she’s a softy, Dad says ‘bye’…secretly he’s a softy too. The night before all the hospital happenings I was lying in bed…shocker, it was night time. It wasn’t just night time though, it was late, past the parents’ retirement bed time. I got this weird feeling, no word of a lie, that I had to tell them I loved them. So, I did. I sent them both a text. One each, specific to them. I didn’t know it, but at that time, Dad was experiencing a bucket-list event…a trip in a helicopter…the Air Ambulance. Dad’s still here, luckily, irritating as always. If he wasn’t however, as morbid as it sounds, I know that the last thing in my mind that I’d told him was that I loved him. Morbid, but true. So, readers, whilst you may be a little grossed out by how cringe the sentiment in my message is, just make sure you don’t filter your feelings. You don’t know when people will leave or be taken away and you don’t want to be left with a severe case of ‘the things I should have said’.
As expressive as it comes and as bold as it gets.
Over and out.
x
(P.S. The header image is a screenshot of the message sent to my Dad pre-hospital hoohaa.)
AS WHITE GIRL AS IT GETS 