had a disagreeable thought about the people who are lucky enough to live in these elegant, refined homes. Hand on heart there is a moment every day when I drive by this stretch of waterfront houses and think:
Wouldnât it be nice if . . .
If what? If I had married a rich local doctor? Or, more to the point, had become that doctor? Is that a tiny little stab I always feel â and yes, it has been a constant silent prod recently â whenever I pass by this stretch of real estate, before turning upwards towards my far more modest home? Is midlife inevitably marked by the onset of regret? I always put on a positive face in front of my work colleagues, my children, my increasingly detached husband. Dr Harrild once referred to me (at a surprise fortieth birthday party two years ago) as âthe most unflappable and affirmative person on our staffâ. Everyone applauded this comment. I smiled shyly while simultaneously thinking:
If only you knew how often I ask myself: âIs this it?â
My dad often sang a tune to me about âaccentuating the positiveâ when I was younger and getting into one of those rather serious moods I used to succumb to during the roller-coaster ride that was adolescence. But considering how often I caught him singing those upbeat words to himself I canât help but think that he was also using the song as a way of bolstering his own lingering sense of regret. Dr Harrild actually heard me humming this once in the staff room and said:
âNow you are about the last person who needs to be telling herself all that.â
Dr Harrild. He too always tries to accentuate the positive â and genuinely be kind. The trip Iâm taking this weekend being an example of that. A radiography conference in Boston. OK, Bostonâs just three hours down the road, so itâs not like being sent to somewhere really enviable like Honolulu or San Francisco (two places I so want to visit someday). Still, the last time I was in Boston . . . gosh, it must be two years ago. A Christmas shopping trip. An overnight with Sally and Ben. We even went to a touring production of
The Lion King
and stayed in an OK hotel off Copley Square. The city was under a fresh dusting of snow. The chic lights along Newbury Street looked magical. I was so happy that Ben and Sally were so happy. And I told myself then that I was going to find the money to start travelling a little every year; that life was roaring by and if I wanted to see Paris or Rome or . . .
Then, a few weeks later, Dan was out of a job. And the dream was put on permanent hold.
Still, thank you, Dr Harrild. An all-expenses-paid trip to Boston. Gas money. A hotel for two nights. Even $300 in cash for expenses. And all because he was invited to this radiological convention, but his eldest boy has a football game this Sunday and he wanted the hospital represented at the convention, and when I raised the concern that maybe I wasnât senior enough (i.e. a doctor) to be attending, he brushed that worry away with the statement: âYou probably know more about radiography than most of the senior consultants who will be there. Anyway, you deserve a trip on us, and a break from things for a few days.â
Was that his way of letting me know that heâd heard something about the state of âthingsâ at home? I had been pretty damn scrupulous about not telling anyone at the hospital or around town about Danâs problems. Still, small hospitals and small towns breed small talk.
Not that Dr Harrild would ever really engage in such gossip. But he was right about me needing a break â even one that would last just under seventy-two hours. A change of scene and all that. But also â and this was a realization which, when it hit me a few days ago, truly shocked me â the first time I had been away on my own since Ben and Sally were born.
I have let myself stand still
.
But tomorrow I am on the road. Alone.
Wouldnât it be nice if . . .
If what? If I had married a rich local doctor? Or, more to the point, had become that doctor? Is that a tiny little stab I always feel â and yes, it has been a constant silent prod recently â whenever I pass by this stretch of real estate, before turning upwards towards my far more modest home? Is midlife inevitably marked by the onset of regret? I always put on a positive face in front of my work colleagues, my children, my increasingly detached husband. Dr Harrild once referred to me (at a surprise fortieth birthday party two years ago) as âthe most unflappable and affirmative person on our staffâ. Everyone applauded this comment. I smiled shyly while simultaneously thinking:
If only you knew how often I ask myself: âIs this it?â
My dad often sang a tune to me about âaccentuating the positiveâ when I was younger and getting into one of those rather serious moods I used to succumb to during the roller-coaster ride that was adolescence. But considering how often I caught him singing those upbeat words to himself I canât help but think that he was also using the song as a way of bolstering his own lingering sense of regret. Dr Harrild actually heard me humming this once in the staff room and said:
âNow you are about the last person who needs to be telling herself all that.â
Dr Harrild. He too always tries to accentuate the positive â and genuinely be kind. The trip Iâm taking this weekend being an example of that. A radiography conference in Boston. OK, Bostonâs just three hours down the road, so itâs not like being sent to somewhere really enviable like Honolulu or San Francisco (two places I so want to visit someday). Still, the last time I was in Boston . . . gosh, it must be two years ago. A Christmas shopping trip. An overnight with Sally and Ben. We even went to a touring production of
The Lion King
and stayed in an OK hotel off Copley Square. The city was under a fresh dusting of snow. The chic lights along Newbury Street looked magical. I was so happy that Ben and Sally were so happy. And I told myself then that I was going to find the money to start travelling a little every year; that life was roaring by and if I wanted to see Paris or Rome or . . .
Then, a few weeks later, Dan was out of a job. And the dream was put on permanent hold.
Still, thank you, Dr Harrild. An all-expenses-paid trip to Boston. Gas money. A hotel for two nights. Even $300 in cash for expenses. And all because he was invited to this radiological convention, but his eldest boy has a football game this Sunday and he wanted the hospital represented at the convention, and when I raised the concern that maybe I wasnât senior enough (i.e. a doctor) to be attending, he brushed that worry away with the statement: âYou probably know more about radiography than most of the senior consultants who will be there. Anyway, you deserve a trip on us, and a break from things for a few days.â
Was that his way of letting me know that heâd heard something about the state of âthingsâ at home? I had been pretty damn scrupulous about not telling anyone at the hospital or around town about Danâs problems. Still, small hospitals and small towns breed small talk.
Not that Dr Harrild would ever really engage in such gossip. But he was right about me needing a break â even one that would last just under seventy-two hours. A change of scene and all that. But also â and this was a realization which, when it hit me a few days ago, truly shocked me â the first time I had been away on my own since Ben and Sally were born.
I have let myself stand still
.
But tomorrow I am on the road. Alone.
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