Before Its Too Late
Helen gripped a bag filled with medication in one hand, a folder of discharge papers in the other, and struggled not to drop her keys as she closed the door to her mothers flat. Her mother lingered in the hallway, refusing to sit on the stool though her legs shook.
Im alright, her mother said, extending a hand for the bag.
Helen blocked her gently, the same way you calmly move a child away from the oven.
You need to sit down now. No arguing.
She recognised this tone in herselfa tone reserved for when everything threatened to unravel and she had to seize control, at least of the basics: where the documents lay, when to take the tablets, who to call. Her mother always bristled at this tone, but stayed silent. Today, the silence was leaden.
In the living room, her father sat by the window in his worn shirt, clutching the TV remote, though the television was off. He stared not outside, but into the glass, as if something else flickered on the invisible screen.
Dad, Helen came closer, Ive got what the doctor prescribed. And heres the referral for the CT scan. Well go tomorrow morning.
He noddeda measured gesture, like signing the bottom of a form.
No need to drag me about, he said quietly. Ill get there myself.
Youll do no such thing, her mother shot back, then softened instantly, as if startled by her own sharpness. Im going with you.
Helen wanted to say that her mother wouldnt survive the long waits. Her blood pressure would spike and shed end up in bed for days, too stubborn to admit it. But Helen held her tongue. A grain of irritation stirred inside herwhy was it always her? Why couldnt anyone else just go along and make things easier?
She spread the papers out on the table, checked dates, clipped together the test results from last week, and felt the familiar heaviness of being the responsible one. At forty-seven, with her own family, job, her sons mortgage to worry about, she still became the default leader when something happened to her parents, even if no one officially assigned her the role.
Helens phone rang. The name of the GP surgery flashed across the screen. She stepped into the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind her.
Mrs. White? The voice on the line was young, formally polite. This is the oncology consultant from the clinic. Regarding the biopsy results
Helen had heard the word biopsy before, but it always sounded foreign, like it belonged in a different life.
theres suspicion of a malignant process. We need to do further urgent scans. I know this is hard, but time is of the essence.
Helen clung to the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. In her mind, unwanted images flared: hospital corridors, IV drips, strangers faces, her mothers back wrapped in a scarf. She heard her fathers cough from the next room, and suddenly that cough seemed proof enough.
Suspicion? she repeated. So, its not certain, but
Were talking about a high probability, the doctor replied. I advise you not to delay. Bring your paperwork tomorrow morningIll see you straight away, no appointment needed.
Helen murmured her thanks, hung up, and stood a moment staring at the hob, the silent ring, as if any second now instructions might materialise there, telling her what to do next.
When she returned to the living room, her mother was watching her intently.
What is it? her mother asked. Tell me.
Helen opened her mouth, her words dry.
They suspect cancer. They said its urgent.
Her mother finally sat. Her fathers expression did not change, but his grip on the remote tightened, knuckles whitening.
So, this is it, he said quietly. Ive lived to see the day.
Helen wanted to protest, to say, Dont talk like that, Nothings certain yet, but there was a lump in her throat that wouldnt let the words out. She realised, sharply, how much in their family depended on not speaking dread aloud. Now that the word had been said, the walls felt thinner.
That evening, Helen went home, but sleep was elusive. Her husband dozed in the bedroom, her son chatted on his phone; she sat at the kitchen table, scribbling a listwhat documents to pack, which tests needed redoing, who else to ring. She called her brother.
James, she said, willing herself to sound steady. They suspect something with Dad. Were going to the clinic in the morning.
Suspect what? Her brothers voice was blank, as if he hadnt heard properly.
Cancer.
There was a long pause on the line.
I cant tomorrowIve got a shift, James said at last.
Helen closed her eyes. She knew James really did need to work, he wasnt management, he couldnt just leave. Yet the old bitterness rose up: he always couldnt, and she always could.
James, she said, wavering slightly, this isnt about your shift. Its about Dad.
Ill come after work, he replied, faster this time. You know, I
I know, Helen interrupted. You know how to vanish when things are scary.
She regretted it instantly, but it was too late. James fell silent, then exhaled.
Dont start, he muttered. You always have to be in control, and then you throw it back in everyones face.
Helen put the phone down and felt something hollow out her chest. She listened to the fridges low hum and thought that now wasnt the time to sort out who was wrong. But its precisely at these moments of fear that all the old hurt crawls out.
The next morning, the three of them went to the hospital: Helen at the wheel, her mother beside her, her father in the back clutching his folder like it was something precious, fragile.
At reception, Helen filled out forms, showed passports, NHS numbers, referral letters. Her mother tried to help but got tangled in names and dates. Her father lingered apart, gazing at the people lining the corridorshaved heads, scarves, grey faces. There was no pity in his gaze, only a quiet recognition.
Mrs. White? called the nurse. Come through.
Inside, the consultant briskly skimmed through the papers. Helen watched his hands, searching his face for any sign of disaster. His tone was level but peppered with worrying phrases: aggressive variant, staging, needs clarification. Her father sat bolt upright, as if attending a meeting.
Well need to repeat some tests, the doctor said. And do an additional biopsy. Sometimes the sample isnt sufficient.
So youre not certain? Helen pressed.
In medicine, were rarely one hundred percent until its confirmed, he replied. But we have to act as though its serious.
That line hit her harder than suspicion. Act as if time is short. Helen felt herself slip into fast-forward mode: everything elsejob, plans, exhaustionfell away.
The following days condensed into a blur: calls, appointments, taxis; waiting rooms, more forms, signatures; evenings in her parents kitchen, the three of them pretending to talk only about logistics.
Ill take leave, Helen announced one night as she ladled soup into bowls. Theyll manage at work.
No need, her father said. Youve your own life.
Dad, she set a bowl in front of him, nows not the moment for pride.
Her mother watched, lower lip trembling. She had always held herself togetherthrough her husband losing work in the nineties, Helens divorce, her brothers escapades. Shed held on so tightly no one ever asked how she managed.
I dont want you two her mother began, then stopped.
Dont want us what? Helen asked.
Dont want you to never forgive each other afterwards, her mother said, gripping her spoon.
Helen wanted to say they already hadnt forgiven so much, only never said it out loud. But she stayed silent again.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Helen lay awake in her own bed, her husbands breathing steady at her side, thinking about her father growing old. She remembered him teaching her to ride a bicycle as a child: holding the back of the seat until she balanced alone. Back then, she wasnt afraid to fall, because she knew he was there. Now, she was the one holding everything upnot just a saddle, but the whole house.
On the third day, her brother finally turned up. He strode into their parents flat with a bag of fruit and an apologetic smile.
Hi, he said.
Helens anger surged; the smile felt all wrong.
Hello, she replied, clipped.
They sat around the kitchen tableher mother slicing apples, father silentwhile James filled the silence with stories from work, as if small talk could mask the tension.
James, Helens composure snapped, do you actually understand whats happening?
I do, he cut her off, bristling. Im not thick.
Then why didnt you come yesterday? Why do you always choose what suits you?
James paled.
Because someone has to work, he retorted. Do you think money just grows on trees? Youve got it all sorted, dont you? Everything by the book. And me
And you what? Helen leaned in. Youre not a teenager anymore, James. Youre a grown man.
Their father raised a hand.
Thats enough, he said quietly.
But Helen found she couldnt stop. Years of built-up resentment, fear for her father poured into every word.
You always ran when things got hard, she said. When Mums blood pressure went through the roof, when Dadwhen Dad was drinking back then, remember? You just disappeared. I stayed.
Their mother slammed the knife onto the board.
Enough of that, she said. That was a long time ago.
Long ago, repeated Helen, but it never really went anywhere, did it?
James slammed his palm on the table.
And you reckon it was easy for you to stay? he shouted. You love being in charge. You love everyone relying on youand then you can hate them for it afterwards.
Helen flinched. Hed struck straight at a truth she always dodged. She really was used to being needed. There was something both heavy and sweet to itbeing needed meant you had the right.
I dont hate you, she said, but wasnt sure she believed it herself.
Their father stood, each movement slow and deliberate.
You think I dont see it? he said. You think I dont know what youre dividing up? Youre dividing me, as if Im just a thing. As if Im already gone
He trailed off. Their mother came to him and gently took his hand.
Dont, she whispered.
Suddenly Helen saw her father not as Dad, but as a scared man, sitting for hours in hospital corridors, listening to the fate of his body from strangers. She felt ashamed.
The phone on the table vibrated. Helen glanced at the screen: it was the laboratory where theyd sent the samples.
Hello? she answered.
Mrs. White? The voice sounded different: tired, not clinical. This is the lab. Theres been a problem with the sample labelling. Were checking now, but theres a chance your fathers results were mixed up.
Helen struggled to process it. The words problem and mixed up wouldnt quite compute.
Sorrywhat do you mean by mixed up?
We found inconsistencies in the barcodes, the voice explained. We need you back tomorrow to repeat the testsfree of charge. The biopsy will be reanalysed as well. Were very sorry.
Helen put the phone down and stared at it, searching for confirmation she hadnt misheard.
Whats wrong? James asked.
Helen looked up. The room was quieteven the fridge seemed to have fallen silent.
They she began, they think the results might have been mixed up.
Her mother covered her mouth. Her father slumped into the chair, legs failing him.
So James exhaled, so it might not be
Helen nodded. And in that moment, she felt not relief but an odd emptiness. As though a blaring alarm had suddenly been silenced, leaving only the raw aftermath of everything theyd said.
Next morning, they went to the laboratory again. Helen drove her parents, James took the bus and met them outside the door. No one joked. No one talked about the weather. They queued in silence, clutching tickets, listening to names being called.
Their father had bloods drawn in silence. Helen watched the thin needle slip into his vein, watched the dark blood fill the tube, reminded again that this wasnt a film, nor a lesson, but their real life, where a barcode error could turn a familys world over in a few days.
They were told to expect results in forty-eight hours. These two days were different: not panic but a strained awkwardness. Her mother fussed around, offering tea and asking Helen if she was tired. Her father became even quieter. James phoned twice, just asking, How are they? and Helen answered just as briefly.
Helen realised she was waiting for someoneanyoneto say, Im sorry. But no one did. And she said nothing either, because she didnt know what to apologise for first.
When the clinic finally called to say the revised sample showed no signs of malignancy, Helen was stuck in traffic on the North Circular. She listened as the consultant explained that the first result was due to the labelling error and too little tissue, that now things looked different, though theyd want to monitor her father in six months.
So theres no cancer? Helen asked, her voice trembling.
At this moment, theres no evidence of cancer, the doctor replied. But ongoing checks are a must.
Helen ended the call and sat gripping the steering wheel. Car horns blared, someone tried to force their way in front, and suddenly tears were rolling down her facenot tears of happiness, but from the release of tension that had held her rigid these past days, and something deeper besides.
That evening, they all gathered at her parents place. Helen brought a pie from the local bakeryher hands trembled too much to bake herself. James arrived with flowers for their mother. Her father sat in his chair, watching them as if theyd just returned from a long journey.
Well, James said, attempting a smile, time for a sigh of relief.
We can sigh out, their father replied. But how do we breathe in again?
Helen looked at him. His voice carried no blame, only exhaustion.
Dad, she started, I
The words caught. She realised that if she began with excuses, things would just return to old routines: I meant well, I was stressed. She needed to speak differently.
I was scared, she managed finally. And I started bossing everyone about, like always. I took it out on James. Im sorry.
James looked down.
So am I, he said. I truly was scared. I hid behind work. Sorry.
Their mother gave a little sob, but didnt cry. She sat next to their father and took his hand.
And I she glanced at both of them, I kept pretending it was all fine so you wouldnt row. Or so I wouldnt be frightened either. But it only made you drift further from each other.
Their father squeezed her hand.
I dont need you to be perfect, he said. I just need you here. And dont turn me into an excuse.
Helen nodded. It hurt inside, knowing these days would leave a mark. Words like vanishing and love being in charge wouldnt vanish with a single sorry. But something had shifted. Theyd finally spoken aloud things previously hidden.
How about this, Helen said, struggling to keep her voice steady. Ill stop taking charge of everything. I can help, but I need you all to share the load too. James, can you come once a week to check on Dad, when check-ups start? Not if possibleI mean for real.
James nodded, after a pause.
I can. Wednesdays are my day off. Ill come.
I, for my part, her mother said, will stop pretending I can manage everything. If Im feeling rough, Ill say so. And not snap at everyone after.
Their father looked around at them and, almost imperceptibly, smiled.
And Ill come for check-ups with someone else, he said. So there wont be misunderstandings.
Helen felt a gentle warmth rising within her. Not giddy relief, not celebration, but the possibility of something new.
After supper, she helped her mother clear the table. Crockery clinked in the sink, water ran. Helen dried her hands and paused by the door.
Mum, she said quietly, I dont really want to be in charge. Im just scared that if I stop, everything will fall to pieces.
Her mother studied her gently.
Try letting go bit by bit, she said. Not all at once. Were learning too.
Helen nodded, slipped on her coat, checked the kitchen light was off, the door locked. Outside, she lingered on the landing, listening to the voices withinno raised voices, no slamming doors, just the muffled sound of family.
She walked down, heading to her car, realising that before its too late wasnt about a single terrible phone call. It was about the truth that now, finally, they had the chance to speak soonerbefore fear made them strangers. And it would need proving, not by words, but by Wednesdays, visits, and small confessionshard won, but sturdier than control.
