Between Lightning and Stillness

The day began with a storm. Not the metaphorical kind, the real one....sheet lightning cracking across the sky, rain lashing down on the freeway as I drove my father to Fiona Stanley Hospital for his surgery. Mum insisted on coming, though she’d only just had her own surgery a couple of days before. She was sore, pale, moving like someone who had no business being out of bed, let alone bouncing along the highway in the middle of a storm. But stubbornness is her gift, and she wasn’t about to let Dad walk into surgery without her.

It was one of those mornings where everyone’s carrying more than they’re saying. Dad disguised his nerves with humour, the way men of his generation often do. A quick one-liner here, a chuckle there....but you could see it in his hands, the way they clasped just a little too tight on the armrest. Men don’t often admit fear, even to themselves, and he was doing a damn good job of living up to that archaic rule. Mum carried her tension in silence, every wince from her abdomen reminding me she shouldn’t have been there. And me? I played the role of driver, observer, son.

The wait dragged on, as waits in hospitals always do. Dad buried himself in a book, Mum scrolled Facebook, and I drifted into a half-sleep, the hum of fluorescent lights and the constant shuffle of nurses acting as a strange lullaby.

Then came the shave-down....two Indian-Australian nurses, one a seasoned hand, the other a trainee. They chatted easily, cracked the kind of dark jokes only hospital staff can, and somehow drew Dad out of his shell. His shoulders loosened, his laugh became more genuine. Then the doctor arrived....younger than I expected, no more than late twenties, slender, softly spoken. There was something almost priestly about him, a gentleness in his manner that reassured Dad more than any statistics could have. He spoke about the risks and the procedure, but what he really delivered was calm. You don’t see that often....not in a place where efficiency usually trumps tenderness.

When it came time to say goodbye, I saw something I rarely witness between my parents. They clung to each other. Not dramatically, not in tears....but in that quiet, desperate way people do when they’re reminded how much they lean on one another. I turned away to give them the moment, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space.

Mum and I wandered down to the cafeteria for lunch, and I finally convinced her to let me take her home. She was hurting, she was exhausted, and she didn’t need to prove anything by sitting in those sterile halls. I settled her in with tea, cake, and a fire before heading back to the hospital alone.

Now I sit again in that cafeteria, the rain hammering against the windows. Around me, the hospital world plays out in two speeds. There’s the relentless pace of staff....orderlies in high-vis vests swapping war stories from their morning, nurses hustling past with clipboards, and one exhausted doctor collapsed in scrubs, crocs off, phone in hand, eyes half-closed. And then there’s the other side...the slow, heavy stillness of those who wait. Families in silence, a lone old woman with a drink staring blankly into the storm outside, faces marked with fear, resignation, or grief.

Hospitals are like that....crossroads where life and death, fear and hope, hustle and stillness all cram together under fluorescent lights and antiseptic air. I’ve never liked them. For most of us, they’re not places of healing, they’re places of waiting....for operations, for bad news, for the long recovery.

And sitting here, waiting for my father to come back from surgery, I can’t help but feel the weight of it. These places are reminders...brutal ones....that time isn’t endless. Mortality lingers in the corners of hospitals, in the shuffling footsteps, in the haunted eyes of people staring into coffee cups. It sneaks up on you, forces you to acknowledge the truth we try to ignore: none of this lasts forever. Not our strength, not our health, not even the people we can’t imagine being without.

It’s a sobering thought, but not one without value. Because if life is fragile....and it is....then maybe the lesson isn’t to obsess over its end, but to make the most of the middle. To savour the small, ordinary things: Clare’s laughter when she’s tired, the boys mucking around with their Lego, a cup of tea by the fire, the quiet joy of just being alive and together. Those are the things that last in memory, even when time runs out.

So I’ll sit here, watching the rain batter against the hospital windows, waiting for the call to see Dad in recovery. And while I wait, I’ll remind myself that life is not guaranteed, and that makes it all the more worth living.