While Theres Still Time
Natalie balanced a pharmacy bag in one hand, a file of discharge letters in the other, and fought not to drop her keys as she locked the door to her mums flat. Her mum hovered in the corridor, stubbornly refusing the stooleven though her legs were trembling.
I can do it myself, Mum insisted, reaching for the bag.
Gently but firmly, Natalie nudged her away, the way you steer a child away from the cooker.
Youre sitting down. No arguments.
She knew that tone in her own voice. It emerged any time everything threatened to unravel, and she needed to keep at least one thing under control: where the paperwork was, when the tablets should be taken, whom to call. Her mum hated that tone, but kept quiet. Today, her silence weighed heavier than ever.
Her dad sat in the sitting room, by the window, still wearing his dressing gown, TV remote held loosely, TV switched off. But he wasnt looking out over the streethis gaze transfixed by the glass, as if another channel ran within it.
Dad, Natalie approached. Ive brought what the doctor prescribed. And this is the letter for your scan. Well go tomorrow morning.
Her father nodded, precise as a signature at the bottom of a document.
You dont need to drive me about, he said. Ill do it myself.
Youll do it yourself, will you? Mum said sharply, then softened, frightened by her own voice. Im coming too.
Natalie wanted to point out that her mum wouldnt manage the waiting rooms, her high blood pressure, that shed end up flat out and admit nothing. But Natalie kept her lips pressed together. A flush of irritation: why is it always down to me? Why cant they just agree and do whats needed?
She spread the paperwork on the table, checked the dates, attached last weeks test results with a paperclip, all the while feeling that familiar weight of being the responsible one. Forty-seven years old: her own family, a job, her sons mortgage to help witha whole life. Yet whenever something happened with her parents, she became the lead, even if nobody had asked her to be.
Her phone rang, and Natalie saw the GP surgerys number. She stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
Natalie Anderson? A young, polite, official voice. Im the consultant from the cancer unit. Regarding the biopsy
Shed heard the word biopsy countless times, though it always sounded alien, as if it belonged to another life.
theres a suspected malignancy. We urgently need further investigation. I realise this is difficult, but time is of the essence.
Natalie clung to the edge of the table, fighting the urge to collapse into a chair. Instantly, unbidden images blazed in her mind: hospital corridors, drips, strange faces, her mothers hunched back in a scarf. Dads cough in the sitting room, heard from the kitchen, suddenly became hard proof.
A suspicion she repeated. So, its not definite, but
The likelihoods high. I strongly recommend you come in tomorrow with all documents. Ill fit you in first thing.
Natalie thanked him, hung up, then stared for a moment at the ovens cold ring, as though it might reveal what to do next.
Back in the lounge, her mother was already watching her.
What? Mum asked. Tell me.
Natalies words came out arid and brittle.
They suspect cancer. They said its urgent.
Mum sat down abruptly. Dads face didnt change, but the remote gripped in his hand blanched his knuckles.
Well, Dad said quietly. Made it this far.
Natalie ached to protestdont say that, nothings definitebut a hard lump stopped her voice. It struck her: how much in their family relied on not speaking terrifying words aloud. Now it was said, the walls felt thinner.
That evening, Natalie returned home but couldnt settle. Her husband slept, her son messaging someone from his room, while she sat in the kitchen making a checklist: which papers to take, which tests to repeat, who to call. She rang her brother.
Sam, she said, steady as she could. Dads got a suspected diagnosis. Were off to the clinic in the morning.
A suspected what? He sounded as if he hadnt heard.
Cancer.
The silence on the line was long.
I cant tomorrow, Sam finally said. Ive got a shift at work.
Natalie closed her eyes. She understoodhe really did work, he wasnt the boss, couldnt just ditch it. But the old swell inside: he was always cant, she was always can.
Sam, she said, her voice almost faltering. Its not about the shift. Its about Dad.
Ill come over in the evening, he replied quickly. You know, I
I know, she cut him off. I know youve always been good at disappearing as soon as it gets scary.
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her brother was silent, then let out a short breath.
Dont start, he said. You always have to be in charge and then you blame us for it.
Natalie ended the call, feeling hollow. She sat listening to the fridges hum and wondered whether now was really the time to argue about who was right. And yet, at times like this, fear drags everything up to the surface.
The next morning, the three of them drove to the clinic: Natalie at the wheel, Mum in the passenger seat, Dad in the back, holding the folder as if it held not papers, but something you could drop and lose forever.
At reception, Natalie filled out forms, flashed ID, insurance info, referral letter. Her mum tried to help but got muddled with names and dates. Dad hovered behind, casting covert glances along the corridor: the bald heads, scarves, grey faces. His look held not pity, but silent recognition.
Natalie Anderson, a nurse called. Come through, please.
In the consultation room, the doctor flicked through papers briskly, confidently. Natalies eyes traced his hands, trying to read his face for how bad it was. He spoke levelly, but words nagged: aggressiveness, staging, will need confirmation. Dad sat upright, like a committee meeting.
Well repeat some tests, the doctor said. And run another biopsy. Sometimes the samples insufficient.
So youre not certain? Natalie asked.
In medicine, theres seldom total certainty without confirmation, replied the doctor. But were obliged to act as though it were serious.
That line struck harder than suspicion. To act as if time was short. Natalie felt her inner gears accelerate. Everything elsework, plans, fatiguefell away.
From then on, days blurred together: morning phone calls, new appointments, driving here and there; afternoons in waiting rooms; evenings back at her parents, pretending to talk logistics and nothing else.
Ill take leave, Natalie said on the second evening, ladling soup. Work will understand.
No need, her father said. You have a life of your own.
Dad, she set his bowl firmly in front of him. Nows not the time for pride.
Her mum watched, and Natalie saw the tremor in her lower lip. Mum had always held things together: when Dad lost his job in the nineties, when Natalie divorced, when Sam got into trouble. Shed coped so silently no one even thought to ask how she was doing.
I dont want you Mum began, voice wavering.
Dont want us what? Natalie asked.
Dont want you tonot forgive each other afterwards.
Natalie almost said theyd never really forgiven each other for plenty alreadythey just never said it out loud. But again, she suppressed it.
She didnt sleep that night. Lying next to her husband, she thought about Dad ageing, and remembered him, years ago, teaching her to ride a bike, holding the saddle until she could cycle on her own. She hadnt been afraid of falling then; he was right there. Now she was the one holding it uponly it felt like she was carrying the whole house.
On the third day, Sam finally came. He arrived at their parents with a bag of fruit and a sheepish smile.
Hi, he said, and Natalies insides flooded thinly with anger; his smile felt wrong.
Hi, she replied coldly.
They sat in the kitchenMum slicing apples, Dad silent. Sam started up about his job, as if to pad out the silence with something safe.
Sam, Natalie finally snapped. Do you actually understand whats happening?
I do, Sam shot back. Im not clueless.
So why didnt you come yesterday? Why do you always pick and choose what suits you?
Sams cheeks paled.
Someone has to work, he muttered. Do you think money materialises out of nowhere? Youre so proper, everythings always by the book. And me
And you what? Natalie leaned in. Youre a grown man, Sam. Not a teenager.
Dad raised a hand.
Thats enough, he said quietly.
But Natalie couldnt stop. Fear for their dad and years of resentment at Sam, at Mum, at herself poured over.
You always left when things got tough, she said. When Mum was ill, when Dadwhen Dad drank, remember? You vanished. It was always me left holding things together.
Mum put the knife down sharply.
Leave it, she said. That was years ago.
Years ago, Natalie echoed, but it never really left.
Sam slammed his hand on the table.
And it’s so easy for you, is it? Being stuck here holding the bag? You love being in controllove everyone relying on you, then you resent us for it.
The words struck her right where she never looked. She did need to be needed. It was bittersweetbeing necessary gave her some kind of right.
I dont hate you for it, she said, though she barely believed herself.
Dad stood up. Carefully, as if each movement required its own decision.
You really think I dont see? he said. Youre dividing me up, like a thing. As if Im already
He stopped. Mum went to him, took his hand.
Dont, she whispered.
Suddenly, Natalie saw her father not as Dad but as a man, sitting in hospital corridors, hearing other peoples bad news, fighting not to show how afraid he was. She felt ashamed.
Vibrations broke the stillnessthe laboratory, where theyd sent the tests.
Hello? Natalie answered.
Natalie Anderson? The voice was different, not medicalexhausted. This is the lab. Theres been a labelling error with the test samples. Were checking now, but its possible your fathers results were mixed up.
Natalies mind stalled. The words error and mixed up didnt compute.
Sorrymixed up how?
We discovered discrepancies in barcodes, explained the voice. Wed like you to return in the morning, no charge, to redo the tests. The biopsy slides will be rechecked as well. Sincere apologies for the mistake.
She put the phone down and stared at the screen as if it might offer proof that she hadnt just imagined it.
What is it? Sam asked.
Natalie looked up. The flat was so quieteven the fridge seemed to have fallen silent.
Theythey might have mixed up Dads results.
Mum put her hand to her mouth. Dad sat heavily, as if his legs gave out.
Meaning? Sam breathed. It might not be?
Natalie nodded. Suddenly, she didnt feel reliefmore an odd blankness. Like someone shutting off a siren, and, in the emptiness left, every word theyd thrown at each other hung sharp in the air.
The following day, they went back to the lab. Natalie drove her parents; Sam came on the bus and met them outside. No jokes, no small talk about the weather. They queued together, holding their number slips, listening out for their names.
Dad gave blood in silence. Natalie watched the needle slip into his vein, the dark line filling the tube, thinking: this is not a film, not a lessonthis is real life, where a barcode error can turn days inside out.
Results were promised in forty-eight hours. Those two days were different. No more panic, just discomfort. Mum tried to act as if nothing had happened, bustling, repeatedly offering tea, asking Natalie if she was tired. Dad became quieter. Sam phoned Natalie a couple of timesHow are they?and she answered just as briefly.
She caught herself waiting for someone to say, Im sorry. No one did. She didnt eithershe couldnt decide what, exactly, to apologise for first.
When the phone rang from the clinic and the doctor said theyd reviewed everything and there was no sign of cancer, Natalie was stuck in traffic at the North Circular. The doctor explained the initial results were a mislabel and not enough sample, that all looked different now, theyd need a check-up in six months.
So its not cancer? Natalies voice cracked.
Nothing to indicate cancer at this point, the consultant replied. But the review is important.
Natalie finished the call and gripped the steering wheel. The horns, the jostling vehicles, all faded as tears streaked her facenot from joy, but because the tension inside, wound tight for days, had finally let go, and with it something even deeper was released.
That evening, they gathered at her parents. Natalie brought a pie from the bakeryher hands still shook, she couldnt bake. Sam came with flowers for their mum. Dad sat in his armchair watching them like they were returning from a long expedition.
Well, Sam half-grinned, can we all finally exhale?
You can exhale, Dad replied. But what about breathing back in?
Natalie looked at him. His voice held no reproach, only tiredness.
Dad, she began. I
The words stuck in her throat. If she started justifying now, it would all go round in circles: I meant well, I was just anxious. She needed to say something else.
I was afraid, she said at last. So I started dictating everything, like always. And I lashed out at Sam. Sorry.
Sam looked away.
Me too, he said at last. I was scared, really. So I hid in my work. Sorry.
Mum gave a little sob, but didnt cry. She sat by Dad and took his hand.
And I Mum glanced from Natalie to Sam. I kept pretending everything was fineso you wouldnt argue, so I wouldnt be afraid. But all it did was push us apart.
Dad squeezed Mums hand.
I dont need you to be perfect, he said. I just need you around. And dont make me the reason for your falling out.
Natalie nodded. A pang inside, knowing these days would leave a mark. The linesgood at disappearing, love being in chargewouldnt vanish after a single sorry. But something had shifted. Now, at least, theyd said aloud what they once hid.
Lets do this, Natalie said, carefully. I wont decide everything. I want to help, but I need you both to take some part too. Sam, could you come check in on Dad once a week, when the monitoring starts? Not just if you can, but a day.
Sam nodded, not at once.
Wednesdays are my day off. Ill do it.
And I, Mum said, Ill stop pretending I can handle it all. If Im unwell, Ill say so. And I wont snap at everyone after.
Dad looked at them and broke into a tiny smile for the first time in ages.
And well all go to appointments together, he said. So theres no more guessing.
Natalie felt the stirring of something warm inside. Not wild relief or celebration, but almost a hope.
After dinner, she helped Mum clear up. Plates clattered, tap ran. Natalie wiped her hands and paused in the kitchen doorway.
Mum, she said quietly, I really dont want to be in charge. Im just scared that if I let go, everything will come apart.
Mum studied her.
Try letting go, bit by bit, she replied. Not all at once. Were learning too.
Natalie nodded. She stepped into the hallway, put on her coat, checked the kitchen light, made sure the door was locked. Out on the landing, she lingered, listening for a moment to the quiet behind the doorno shouts, no slamming, just muffled voices.
She hurried out towards her car, realising that while theres still time isnt about one dreadful phone call. Its about the chance, from now on, to speak out before fear turns you all into strangers. And that chance has to be provennot with words, but with Wednesdays, and visits, and the little admissions that are hard to give but bind you better than control ever could.
