***
The next day, my shift in the oncology department of Guy’s Hospital in London comes to an end. It’s been particularly taxing with more than one patient receiving bad news. I’ve worked in the medical field for over twenty years now, and it never gets easier. Sure, I’ve perfected my professional expression and tone, but every terminal diagnosis hurts.
It’s a failure to add to my list.
Back in my office, I fire up my computer. One final check of my email. Now all my kids are away, I have plenty of time to work in the evenings. As I type in my password, my phone rings. Liam. I stop what I’m doing and focus on my son. When I answer, both my boys stare out of the screen. How alike they are still takes my breath away. It’s so great when they call. I always look forward to it. A surprise is even better.
“Hey, Dad,” they say together as if rehearsed. “Just checking in.”
They’ve been in Chicago for over a month, nearer two, and the phone calls are becoming further apart. Any time I get them on the phone, it’s obvious they want to get off, always somewhere better to be.
I’m glad they’re thriving.
I still hate the quiet.
“Thanks for calling, boys,” I say, trying to be casual. “How’s things?”
It’s lame. But if I think too much, I may launch into a speech about how much I love them, and with teenage boys, it may make the wait for their next call longer. So, I just smile and hope for some sort of update.
“Liam’s got a girlfriend.” Ollie elbows his brother in the ribs.
Liam pinches his nose. “Ouch…Don’t be a dick.” His eyes pop. “Sorry, Dad.”
I laugh. I should scold him, but I don’t. This is a normal interaction between them, and right now, it doesn’t seem important.
“So, who is she?” I ask. Liam turns beetroot.
“Her name’s Jazz,” Ollie says. “She’s a cheerleader.”
Suddenly, visions of an American high school movie pops into my head. Cheerleaders throwing each other into the air while oversized teenage boys ram each other on the football field.
“Is she nice?” I try to keep the conversation on subjects I want to discuss. Ollie can’t be trusted not to say something inappropriate. He always likes to push the boundaries. Especially with his brother.
“Yeah,” Liam says. “We’ve gone on a couple of dates. I had fun.”
“That’s all that matters. So, Ollie, what about you?”
“Me?” He screws up his face. “Nah, Dad, girls are bad news. I’ll leave the falling in love to him.” He elbows Liam again. His brother’s brows knit even tighter. “He’s the romantic… like you.”
We chat for a few more minutes, about practice, people they’ve met, and plans for the week ahead. I love seeing them both so animated and enjoying life. It makes me even prouder. When they sign off, I return to my email.
At the top of my inbox is an email from a new contact: Opengate Limited. It’s a corporation I’ve heard of but had no direct dealings with. They’re seen as the Robin Hood of the medicine industry, finding access to treatments for those who can’t get approved. Receiving an email from them makes no sense.
The subject line makes my heart stop. I click it open, and as I read, my jaw hangs a little lower.
Subject: Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat Proposal
Dear Dr. Jones,
I’ve recently been made aware of your plans to establish a retreat for families facing terminal illness. Having reviewed your outline and the early planning documents circulating within local funding channels, I would welcome the opportunity to learn more.
At Opengate, we are currently exploring partnerships with community-led initiatives that align with our wider commitment to patient access and long-term care support. Your proposal appears to intersect meaningfully with that objective.
If you are available, I would like to invite you to our London office on Tuesday, the 12th of July, to discuss whether there may be scope for collaboration.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Kind Regards