The Right Not to Rush
A text from my GP pinged as I sat at my desk, typing out another email at work. The vibration startled meit was right next to my keyboard.
Your test results are ready. Please come by before six, it read, concise and to the point.
It was quarter to four, according to the screen. The surgery was three stops away on the bus, and thered be the waiting queue, the consultation, the trip back… Add in a call from my son, promising hed pop by if he has time, plus my managers morning hint about an extra report. There were also my mums documents sitting by my feet; Id promised to drop them round this evening.
Running about again tonight? my colleague across the divider asked, noticing me eyeing the time.
Suppose I must, I replied on autopilot, although my neck was damp around my collar and a heavy fatigue pulsed in my chest.
The workday dragged on like thick dough. Emails, phone calls, an endless department group chat. Around midday, my manager poked her head out of her office.
Anna, could you do me a favour? A contractor wants a summary for the weekend, and Ill be away Saturday. Nothing major, just collating the spreadsheets. Three, four hourscould be done from home.
The words nothing major sat in the air like an order. I glanced at my colleague, who buried herself in her monitor as though hoping to disappear. I almost chirped my usual of course, but my phone trembled quietly from my pocket. It was a reminder from an app: Evening walk: 30 minutes. Id set up those notifications over the summer, after yet another spike in my blood pressure, and usually just flicked them away without thinking.
This time I didnt. I looked at the messagea small thing alive, waiting for my decision.
Anna? my manager prompted.
I drew in a breath. My head throbbed, but deep inside, a stubborn clarity took hold: if I agreed, Id be working late again, my back would ache, and Sunday would disappear into choreslaundry, cooking, mums clinic appointments.
I cant, Im afraid, I said. Even I was surprised at how calm I sounded.
Her eyebrows rose.
Really? I thought you
Ive got Mum, I continued, using the excuse for lateness that never seemed valid for saying no. And my GP mentioned I have to cut back on extra hours. Sorry.
It was truemy GP had said something along those lines ages ago, if in passing.
A pause hung in the air. I braced for a resigned sigh, a speech on teamwork and me being reliable.
Fine, she said at last, clearly about to add more but just waving a hand. Ill ask someone else. Carry on.
Once the door clicked shut, I realised my back was sweaty. My fingers trembled on the mouse. A guilty little thoughtmaybe I shouldve said yes, was it that hard? Just a few hours on a Saturday.
But mingling with guilt was another, unfamiliar feeling: relief. Like having set down a heavy bag and finally taking a seat.
That evening, instead of dashing to the shopping precinct for report essentials, I left the surgery, results in hand, and didnt bolt for the bus stop. I stood by the door, caught my breath, noticing for once how sore my legs felt from the days scrabble.
Mum, Ill come round tomorrow, I promised on the phone, after queuing up for the results.
Not tonight? I thought youd at least pop in, she said, just the faintest note of reproach in her voice.
Mum, Im exhausted. Its late, I need a proper meal for once. Ill buy your tablets, promise, and bring everything in the morning.
I braced myself for the storm. Instead, I got a sigh.
I suppose. Youre not a child.
Not a child, I echoed, half-smiling to myself. Fifty-five, two grown children, the mortgage nearly paid offand yet inside, I still sometimes feel Ive something to prove. As a daughter, a mum, an employee.
Home was peaceful. My son messaged to say he couldnt visitmad rush at work. I put the kettle on, sliced some tomatoes. For a moment, my hand twitched towards the hooverthe floors were overdue. Then I simply sat down with my tea and let it cool, flicking through a book Id started on holiday, ages ago.
That anxious voice in my mindlaundry needs hanging, pans need scrubbing, must finish that report, ought to research a new clinic for Mumchattered on, but, somehow, not so loud today. A tiny crack had opened between all the must-dos, letting through a gentle, unfamiliar thought: Or maybe later.
I read slowly, returning to paragraphs Id skimmed. Now and then, I just gazed out the window, not in a hurry. Headlights drifted past, a rare passer-by pulling a shopping trolley, dogs ambling lazily on the lead.
Alright, I murmured, as if to sum things up. It doesnt matter if the floors arent spotless.
This didnt feel criminal anymore.
* * *
The next morning everything spun into motion as if yesterday hadnt happened. Mum rang at nine, fretful:
Anna, you will be here before noon? Ive got to have my blood pressure checked by eleven, the nurse is due.
Ill be there, I said, pulling on my jeans with one hand, stuffing the blood pressure cuff in my bag with the other.
My son buzzed on WhatsApp.
Mum, hello. Listen, theres something about the flatcan we have a chat this evening? His tone was brisk, business-like, as if discussing a contract.
After seven, thats fine, I called out, lacing up my boots. Im off to Grans.
Again? he blurted.
Again, I replied simply.
On the bus, while someone argued with the driver and shopping bags rustled in corners, I dozed off clutching the monitor and woke up outside Mums estate.
She met me in her dressing gown, as usual looking a bit disapproving.
Youre late. Its a mess and the nurse will see it, she grumbled, nodding towards a chair piled with clothes.
Before, Id have snapped straight upangry retorts flying before I could stop them: I dash about everywhere and you complain about a bit of mess?! Then, inevitably, guilt and exhaustion.
Now, I paused on the doorstep, set my bag down, and breathed in. I could see our usual dancethe same old words and sighs, another walk home wiping my eyes and making up excuses for the kids as to why I was in a mood.
Mum, I said quietly. I know youre worried. But lets get the table ready first, then Ill tackle the clothes. Im not made of endless energy.
She scowled, ready to argue, but saw something differentcalm firmness, not drama.
Alright, she muttered. Set up your gadget, then.
When the nurse had left, Mum fiddled with her dressing gown tie and, in a tone quite unlike her normal TV-diatribe, said,
Im not difficult, you know. I just cant bear being on my own sometimes.
I was rinsing mugs in warm, soapy water, her words thawing and pinching my heart at once.
I know, I told her. I get scared too, now and then.
She scoffed, like she didnt believe it, and turned back to the telly. But something quietened in the room, as though someone had smoothed out the tangle between us.
* * *
On the way home that evening, I popped into the chemist near my flat. Ahead of me in the queue was the neighbour from two doors downshe was usually out lumbering a buggy and shopping, but today she looked lost.
Cant make head nor tail of these vitamins for my other half, she murmured, clutching her notebook anxiously. The doctor scribbled two names and with all these special offers, its confusing.
Normally, Id nod and dive into my phone: enough on my own plate. But today I recognised the lost lookmy mum struggling with her pill schedule, me standing here just last winter, squinting at medicines, baffled.
Let me have a look? I offered.
We went to the side, I put on my glasses, read her notes, figured it out and asked the pharmacist. Then I showed her the right box.
Oh, thank you! I just cant cope, she sighed in relief. You know it all, what with your mum being illand all…
I chuckled. Hardly. Ive just bumped into these problems before, thats all.
Outside, she hesitated.
If I need advice again, can I ask you? My husband wont read any of the leaflets.
A few years back Id have replied, Of course, pop round any time, and then resented it if she called late. Now I let a small pause pass, checking for that familiar anxietyam I taking on another obligation?
Give me a ring, I said, but lets make it daytime. Evenings are kind of my own.
Strangely, it felt liberating, speaking that aloudmy evenings were, after all, just as valid a reason as anyone elses needs.
She noddedit seemed perfectly natural. That pleased me more than her thank you.
* * *
That evening, I made a quick dinner, no great production. Didnt get out every pan as if expecting a feastjust myself today, perhaps my son later. Boiled some pasta, fried a bit of chicken, sliced cucumber. The kitchen looked a mess, a shirt of my sons slung over the chair, a basket of unsorted laundry in the cornera decade ago, I wouldnt have sat down before everything was put away.
Now I just nudged the basket aside with my foot.
My son called, sounding tense.
Mum, its tricky. The mortgage theyre offering us needs a big deposit. We wondered if you could help a bit more. I know youve already chipped in, but…
I closed my eyes. These requests always jabbed where Im soft. Up would rise that whole parade of old worries: bad parenting, never earned enough, didnt provide properly. And, stuck in there as well, the splinter of regret over spending a chunk years ago on my ex-husbands failed scheme, then blaming myself for years after.
How much are we talking? I asked, elbows on the table.
He told me. Not unmanageable, but hefty. I could pull it from my reservesthe bits Id scraped together for my own someday: a proper seaside trip, a new fridge, Mums dental work.
Inside, something rustled: the old paperwork in a bottom drawer, not just numbers but old resentmentsjobs I never took, dissertations never finished, staying with my husband too long and leaving anyway.
Well pay you back eventually, he added hurriedly.
Im not expecting it, I admitted, because I knew, in all honesty, I likely wouldnt see that money again.
A couple of seconds must have seemed like ages to him. In that pause, I saw it allhis childhood boots bought on credit cards, fatherless Christmases, nights when he clung to me out of fear, and my own dreams stashed away like old jumpers on the wardrobe shelf.
Ill helpbut only half, I said at last. You two will have to find the rest yourselves.
Mum… and I heard disappointment behind his words.
Sam, I saidrarely do I use that tone. Im not an ATM. I have a life too, you know.
We sat in silence. I tuned in to the thud of my own heart, expecting its old loyal sidekick, self-flagellation. Instead, I felt uneasy. A touch of guilt. But also, strangely calm.
Alright, he agreed at last. Youre right. It really helps anyway. Well figure the rest.
We chatted a bit morework, his sister, what series everyones watching. I hung up, and for once, the ticking of the kitchen clock filled the quiet.
I perched on the stool by the laundry basket, looking at it, sensingnot quite a memory, but the ghost of myself at thirty-fivefrazzled, always apologising, convinced I was getting it all wrong.
Well then, I said inwardly to that younger self, Yes, we missed out on things. Yes, made mistakes. But thats no reason to punish ourselves another twenty years.
Not wisdom, just a quiet kind of peace. I folded one T-shirt. Then another. Stopped, left the rest for tomorrow. Gave myself permission to leave things less than perfect.
* * *
On a Saturday free from overtime, I woke before the alarm. My body twitched to leap up and get startederrands, cooking, laundry. But I made myself stay in bed, just ten more minutes, listening to the hush as someone shuffled along outside.
Later, tea drunk, room straightened, I fished out the little notebook my daughter had given me at Christmas. Mum, its time you did something for yourself shed grinned. Write what youd like to do in here.
Back then I just smiled and put it awaywhat could I possibly want, really, when so much needed for Mum, work, the kids?
Now I opened a fresh page. The pen hovered. There were no grand plansno world travel, no career change. I realised I didnt want yet another project.
Instead, I wrote neatly: Id like to go for a walk some evenings, just for the sake of it. And below: Sign up for a computer basics course at the local library.
Not Spanish classes, not potterynothing to show off on social media. Just to get comfortable with what I use every day, so I wouldnt need Sams help booking a doctors appointment online.
I tucked the notebook in my bag, left the house, and, for once, turned away from the shops and into the little park Id not visited for years. It was quiet, a few old trees shading benches. Two women my age chattedmuch the same subjects, I guessed, as my own: prices, health, family.
I kept walkingnot fast, not slow, but my own pace. Inside, there was a new sense of space, as if clearing out an old cupboard, finally making room.
I didnt know how to live differently yet. No doubt Ill still stumble, still say yes, still snap or regret things. But now, between all those habits and myself, theres a gap big enough to pause, and ask, Is this what I want?
On the way home, I went into the library Id walked past for years, never entering. Smelt paper and dust. A woman in a knitted cardigan glanced up from the desk.
Can I help you?
Do you do courses? I asked, suddenly nervous, for well, adults? Id like to get better at computers, really.
She smiled. We do. Evenings, twice a week. Were just starting up a new group. Shall I put your name down?
Yes, please, I managed.
I filled out the form, writing my age carefully. 55 didnt look like a life sentence any more. More like a marker: Id come to a place where I finally had the right not to hurry.
Back home, the kitchen still boasted a greasy pan, that same shirt was draped over the chair. Mums test results and an unread email from my manager, New projects for the month, lay on the table.
I shelved my bag, took off my coat, and stood by the window for a moment. My chest felt easy, calm. I knew in a minute Id get on with the washing up, call Mum, deal with the email. But in between those tasks, Id definitely find a windowone cup of tea, a page of a book, a quiet walk around the block.
And that knowledge felt, quite unexpectedly, more important than any of the rest.
