Best Laid Plans
The Best Laid Plans
It was Friday morning.
My second favourite day of the week. I'd messaged my daughter to see if I was able to see my grandsons over the weekend - always something to look forward to. I was already planning the production of truck bikkies that were a favourite of Micah, the nearly-three year old and just-promoted-to-Big-Brother. We also had a much anticipated catch up with a very dear friend of more than 20 years over on the other side of Sydney.
The weather was looking grand over the next few days - typical Sydney winter, with stunning sunshine, but a cool breeze whenever you get out of a sunbeam.
Then, I called Dad. He'd just been released from hospital in Auckland the day before with a terrible cough, and I wanted to check in with him to see how he was. I was expecting to hear that he was at last on the mend after feeling so rotten for a few weeks.
The phone rang - and was answered by a cough that sounded like it was coming from his boots.
"Hello??" He choked out, followed by more coughing.
He wasn't any better at all. If anything, he sounded WORSE!
After a very quick chat, as Dad was struggling to talk in between coughing fits, it was obvious to me that Dad wasn't any better. My heart went out to him - just turned 79, living with his beloved dog Beema, and long-term health issues. And alone.
I couldn't bear it. I felt so sad that he was so far away, and awful that I couldn’t do anything for him. So, I did what any other self-respecting firstborn would do - booked the first flight out!! One way only, not knowing how bad Dad really was, what I was walking into, or how long I'd be needed.
No agonising. No spreadsheet of pros and cons. Just me, my laptop, and a credit card that was about to feel this.
By 10am I'd cancelled the bikkie production line, mentally berated myself for not being available to see my beloved grandsons, and packed a bag that was mostly just "enough." Dori was everywhere that morning - cups of tea appearing without being asked, checking flights, sourcing best value hire cars, feeding and walking the dogs so that was one less thing I had to think about, then driving me to the airport. And when I rang to cancel my catch up, my friend didn't need an explanation. She's in the same boat with her own elderly Mum overseas. She just said “thinking of you – GO!”.
And somewhere between the airport car park and takeoff, it hit me. Not panic. Not even worry, really - that was already sitting heavy in my chest and wasn't going anywhere. What hit me was gratitude.
Not gratitude that I'm somehow built for this, or that I've engineered a life flexible enough to just drop everything. I haven't, and I'm not. It was simpler, and better, than that. I was grateful that I didn't have to do any of it alone. Dori didn't blink. My friend didn't need convincing. When it mattered, the people around me just... stepped up, without me having to ask twice.
That's the kind of gratitude that sneaks up on you. The kind that comes from realising, mid-scramble, that you're surrounded by people who understand what matters to you - and who make it easy to go when you need to. And that your life is built in a way that let me actually do it — pack a bag and a work laptop, with no idea how long I'd be gone, and still keep the home fires (and the bank balance) burning while I dealt with whatever was waiting for me in Auckland.
Dad's cough didn't care about my plans. Turns out, neither did I. Gratitude, it turns out, comes in two parts: for the people who drop everything to help you drop everything — Dori and my friend, clearing the path before I even had to ask. And for a life built solidly enough that when it mattered, I could just... go. Pack a bag, pack a laptop, keep the lights on, deal with what needed dealing with.
Who's worth a one-way ticket for you?
Who's the person that makes it possible for you to buy one?
And if the call came today, would your life let you go?
