While Theres Still Time
Emily balanced a bag of medication in one hand and a folder brimming with hospital discharge papers in the other as she struggled to find her keys and shut the door to her mums flat. Her mum stood resolutely in the hallway, refusing to sit on the stool nearby, even though her legs trembled visibly.
I can manage, her mum said, reaching determinedly for the bag.
Emily blocked her, gently but firmly, the way youd steer a child away from the oven.
Sit down, Mum. No arguments.
She recognised that voice in herselfthe one that only surfaced when everything threatened to unravel and she needed to gather herself and impose order: where the paperwork was, what time medicines were due, who to call and when. Mum always bristled at it, but said nothing. Today, that silence felt even heavier.
Her dad was in the living room by the window, dressed in his house shirt, clutching the remote, the television dark. He wasnt looking out over the garden but somewhere beyond his reflection, as if another programme was showing behind the glass.
Dad, Emily said, stepping closer, Ive got what the doctor prescribed. And heres the referral for the CT scan. Well go first thing tomorrow.
Her father nodded carefully, as though signing his name at the bottom of a contract.
You dont have to take me, he said. I can go by myself.
Youll do no such thing, her mum cut in, then softened her tone quickly, as if startled by her own firmness. Ill go with you.
Emily resisted the urge to say her mother wouldnt handle the waiting rooms, that her blood pressure would be up and shed end up flattened in bed, refusing to admit it. She said nothing, instead fighting off the familiar irritation at how everything seemed to land on her shoulders, how no one could just agree and do what needed to be done.
She laid out the documents on the kitchen table, double-checked the dates, clipped together last weeks test results, and felt that persistent weariness settlethe exhaustion of always being the responsible one. She was forty-seven, with a family, a demanding job, and her sons mortgage to help with. Yet whenever something happened to her parents, she became the main organiser, even though no one had ever appointed her.
Her phone rang; the number for the local GPs surgery flashed on screen. Emily slipped into the kitchen and pulled the door nearly closed.
Emily Taylor? the voice was young, polite, official. This is Dr. Fosterthe oncologist from the unit. About your fathers biopsy
The word biopsy gripped her, still alien-sounding, as if it belonged to another life.
Theres a strong suspicion of a malignant process. Further urgent investigations are required. I know its difficult, but the timing is critical.
Emily gripped the table edge to keep from sliding into a chair. Her mind flooded instantly with images she hadnt summoned: hospital corridors, drips, strange faces, her mums back hunched beneath a scarf. From the living room, her dad cougheda sound that suddenly felt like a confirmation.
Suspicion she echoed, so its not definite, but
Were talking about a high probability. I advise you not to delay. Bring the paperwork in the morning, Ill see you straight away.
Emily thanked her, ended the call, and stared at the switched-off hob as though she could find instructions there for what came next.
Back in the lounge, her mum was watching intently.
Whats happened? her mum pressed. Tell me.
Emilys mouth was dry.
Theyre suspicious of cancer. They want us in urgently.
Her mum folded, perching at last. Dads face didnt change, but his hand whitened on the remote.
So thats it, he said quietly. All this time
Emily wanted to protest, to say Dont. We dont know yet. But her throat tightened. She realised suddenly how tightly their family bound everything up with silence, believing that if words werent said aloud, nothing awful could happen. Now the word had broken through; the walls felt thinner.
That evening, Emily returned home, but sleep eluded her. Her husband slept; her son messaged friends behind a shut door; she sat at the kitchen table, making a listdocuments to gather, blood tests to repeat, people to inform. She phoned her brother.
James, she said, voice striving for calm, Dads got a possible diagnosis. Were going to the hospital tomorrow.
A possible what? James tone wavered.
Possible cancer.
A long pause.
I cant make it tomorrow, James said at last. Im on shift.
Emily closed her eyes. She knew his work schedule was rigid, that he couldnt just swap out. But an old frustration surfacedhe always couldnt, and she always could.
James, she managed, her voice wavering, this isnt about a shift. This is about Dad.
Ill come by in the evening, he said hurriedly. You know I
I know, she interrupted. I know youre good at disappearing when things get hard.
She regretted it immediately, but it was too late. James was silent for a moment, then exhaled sharply.
Dont start, Em. You always have to run the show, then throw it back in my face.
Emily put the phone down and felt utterly hollow. She listened to the fridge hum. Now was not the time to tally up who was right. But fear made all those old wounds sting.
The next day, the three of them set off for the hospital: Emily at the wheel, her mum in the passenger seat, her dad behind, cradling the folder as if losing it would mean losing everything. At reception, she filled in forms, produced her fathers passport and NHS number, referral letter fanned on the counter. Mum hovered, tangling surnames and dates. Dad watched the people in the waiting area with quiet recognition, not pity: bald heads, scarves, grey faces.
Emily Taylor, a nurse called.
In the consulting room, the doctor flicked through papers swiftly, certain in his movements. Emily watched his hands, trying to divine the worst from his expression. He spoke calmly, but dropped barbsaggressive, staging, need clarification. Dad sat upright, as if at a board meeting.
Well need to retest some bloods, the doctor said, and repeat the biopsy. Sometimes the sample isnt sufficient.
So youre not sure? Emily asked.
Rarely is medicine absolute, he answered, but we have to proceed as if it were serious.
That line struck harder than suspicion. To act as if time was running outher body switched into acceleration. Work, plans, exhaustion faded in urgency.
From there, the days blurredcalls, appointments, outings in the mornings; forms, signatures, queues by day; kitchen-table logistics by evening.
Ill take leave, Emily said one night, ladling out soup. Work will cope.
No need, Dad replied. You have your own life.
Nows not the time for pride, Dad, she said, setting the bowl before him.
Mum gazed at the table, her lower lip quivering. Shed always been stoicwhen Dad lost his job in the nineties, through Emilys divorce, during James wild years. Shed anchored the family so well that nobody thought to ask how she was coping.
I dont want you to Her mum began, then stopped.
To what? Emily prompted.
To end up not forgiving each other.
Emily thought of all the things they hadnt forgiven, silently buried. She kept quiet.
That night, lying in bed beside her husbands slow breathing, Emily thought of her father growing frail. She remembered learning to ride a bicycle, him trotting behind, hand steady on the saddle until she pedaled off unaided. Then, she hadnt feared falling; he was always near. Now, she was the one holding everything upnot just the seat, but the whole family home.
On the third day, James finally showed up, a bag of apples and an apologetic smile in hand.
Hi, he said. That smile stabbed at Emilyhow out of place it felt.
Hi, she replied stiffly.
They sat in the kitchen; Mum peeled fruit, Dad silent. James started talking about work, trying, Emily realised, to fill the silence with something safe.
James, Emily snapped at last, do you actually get whats happening?
Yes, James shot back. Im not thick.
Then why werent you here yesterday? Why is it always on your terms?
James cheeks drained of colour.
Because someone has to work, he said. Do you think money just turns up? Youre always so bloody organised, everything by a spreadsheet. Me”
You what? she retorted. Youre a grown man, James. Not a teenager.
Dad lifted a hand.
Thats enough, he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
But Emily couldnt stop. Years of fear for their dad tangled with resentment for her brother, even for Mumand herself.
You always slipped out when things were rough, she said. When Mums blood pressure was awful, when Dad when he drank. You vanished. I stayed.
Mum clattered the knife onto the board.
Leave that in the past, she insisted. Its long over.
Long ago, Emily echoed. But not forgotten.
James slammed his palm on the table.
You think staying was easy? he cried. You love being the lynchpin, having everyone depend on youthen hating us for it.
His words hit somewhere deep in Emily, a truth she side-stepped: she did need to be needed. It was heavy and addictive. If she was needed, she had rights.
I dont hate you, she said, although she wasnt sure she believed herself.
Dad got to his feet, moving carefully as if each step hurt.
Do you think I dont see? he asked. You think I dont understand how youre pulling at me from both sidesas if Im already gone?
He trailed off. Mum took his hand.
Dont, she whispered.
Emily suddenly saw her fathernot as Dad, but as a man sitting in echoing clinics, hearing strange diagnoses and doing his best to hide his fear. Shame caught her sharply.
The phone on the table vibrated. Emily glanceda call from the same lab where theyd given Dads blood samples.
Hello?
Emily Taylor? This is the laboratory. The voice sounded tired, not official. Weve had a problem with sample labelling. Were investigating, but theres a chance your fathers results were mixed up.
It took a moment for the words to sink inproblem, mixed up.
Sorry, can you clarify?
We found a mismatch in barcodes. Please come back tomorrowtherell be no charge to repeat all the samples, including the biopsy. Apologies.
Emily set the phone down, staring at the screen. There should have been a notification explaining what to do next.
What is it? James asked.
She lifted her head. The room was silent, even the fridge had gone quiet.
They they think the test results may have been mixed up.
Mum clapped her hand over her mouth. Dad dropped back into his chair as if his knees might give way.
So James swallowed. So maybe its not
Emily nodded. Rather than relief, she felt an odd emptiness. As if, with the emergency gone, all the angry words remained.
The next morning, they went back to the hospital lab. Emily drove her parents; James arrived by bus and met them by the doors. No one joked. They queued quietly, clutching number slips, listening for their surname.
Dad had his blood taken in silence. Emily watched the needle, the dark blood filling the tube, thinking: this wasnt a film, not a health classthis was their life, where a slip of barcode nearly spun their world off its axis.
The lab expected results in two days. That wait felt differentno frantic panic, just a sticky awkwardness. Mum fluttered round, making tea, asking Emily if she was tired. Dad fell even quieter. James phoned once or twiceHow are they? Emily answered briefly.
She realised she was waiting for someone to say, Im sorry. But no one did. Neither did sheshe wasnt sure which apology came first.
When the consultant finally rang to say the revised results showed no malignancy, Emily was trapped in traffic on the North Circular. The doctor explained the earlier sample was mislabelled and inadequate, that everything looked different now, that Dad needed regular check-ups but not urgent treatment.
Sohe doesnt? Emily choked on the words.
As of now, theres no evidence of cancer, the doctor replied. But we must keep monitoring.
Emily ended the call, gripping the wheel as honks blared around her. Suddenly her face was wet with tearsnot joyful, but the kind that come when tension finally lets go, and something deeper goes with it.
That evening, they all gathered at her parents house. Emily brought a pie from the local bakeryher hands too shaky to cook. James appeared with flowers for Mum. Dad sat in his usual chair, watching as if theyd returned from a long journey.
Well, James ventured, forcing a grin, we can exhale now.
We can, Dad agreed. But how do you breathe in again?
Emily watched him. He wasnt chastising, but so very tired.
Dad she began.
The right words snagged. She realised that if she started excusing herselfI only wanted the best, I was out of my depththeyd fall back into old patterns. She needed something different.
I was scared, she admitted. So I acted like I always dotook over everything. And I lashed out at James. Im sorry.
James looked down at his hands.
So am I. I got scared too, and just hid at work. Sorry.
Mum gave a little gasp, but didnt cry. She sat beside Dad, squeezing his hand.
And I, Mum said, glancing at both of them, kept pretending were all fine, so you two wouldnt fight, so I wouldnt be scared myself. But thats only sent you both further away.
Dad squeezed her hand.
I dont need you to be perfect, he said. I just need you with me. Not using me as an excuse to fight.
Emily nodded, a sore ache in her chest. These past days had left a trace. Their old grievances wouldnt vanish with a single sorry. But something had shifted. At least now, theyd spoken the truth aloud.
Right then, Emily said, steadying her voice, Ill stop making all the decisions. I still want to help, but only if you all do your share. James, can you come every Wednesday when Dad has check-ups? Not if you canactually commit.
James nodded, after a pause.
Wednesdays are my day off. Ill do it.
And I, Mum said quietly, will stop pretending I can handle everything. If Im struggling, Ill say so. And I wont get snappy.
Dad looked from one to the other and managed a faint smile.
For the next check-up, lets all go in together, he said. That way therell be no need for guesswork.
Emily felt the first, cautious glow of hope. Not relief, exactly. Not celebrationjust a tiny sense of possibility.
After dinner, she cleared up with her mum. Crockery clinked in the sink, water rushed. Emily dried her hands and paused at the kitchen door.
Mum, she said softly, I really dont want to be in charge all the time. Im just afraid if I let go, everything will fall apart.
Mum looked at her steadily.
You could try letting go a little, she said. Not all at once. Were learning too.
Emily nodded. She put her coat on in the hall, checked the kitchen lights, locked up. On the stairwell, she paused, listeningno rows, no slammed doors, just muted voices.
She went down to her car, understanding that while theres still time wasnt about one frightening phone call. It was about making sure, from now on, they spoke up before fear made them strangers. And that chance would be earned not with words, but in Wednesday visits, quiet recognitionshard won, but steadier than any illusion of control.
