It’s a wonderful thing to be quiet

Have you ever been told that you’re ‘too quiet’? If you’re anything like me you’ll have heard this countless times throughout your life. Some people are perplexed by quietness and introversion. It is a very western concept that extroversion is seen as the norm and that if you’re a quieter person, you’re the anomaly or the ‘shy’ one. As a young pupil I was the quiet kid, and as an educator I became hyper aware of the quiet kids within the classroom. Being quiet, at least as far as I’ve noticed, has always been considered one of those quirks that needs to slowly be developed.

The thing is, being quiet is actually pretty awesome. Many people who are considered ‘quiet’ aren’t like that all the time. Some of us are quiet in big groups, but talk the ears off of our closest friends and family. Some of us just prefer to listen and observe. Quiet people are brilliant listeners, keen observers, and we’re often well tuned in to the world. Being quiet is different to being shy. Shyness can be related to wanting to speak and not feeling confident or comfortable enough to do so. Quietness is simply the absence of noise. What kind of a work would it be if we were all shouting over each other constantly?

Often, being quiet can bring with it some worry. I’ve sat in many a room with a many a friend or acquaintance or colleague, and felt anxious about not saying enough. At times, I’ve felt the need to try to make small talk or fill frequent silences with this and that. But in all honestly I don’t always have the urge to talk. I like looking and listening and watching and understanding and simply just being.

It’s not just okay to be quiet. It’s actually a wonderful thing. Being quiet allows us space to see and feel and witness the world around us. If you have a quiet friend, a quiet child in your classroom, or maybe a colleague who doesn’t speak up as much as the rest of the team, try to see this as a beautiful and wonderful introspective gift. We are all different, and there isn’t one fixed way to be. Loud or quiet, we each contribute something unique and important to the world around us. In loudness there is movement and flurries of revelation. In quietness there is peace, understanding and stillness, and we each make up two halves of an ever continuing conversation.

 

To the NHS nurse who held my hand

When I was 17 years old I had a Cancer scare. The ultimate outcome was that I was far too young to go through invasive screening and that they were certain I was fine. This unfortunately led to a series of health related anxieties, doctors visits and serious hypochondria. When I say the word “hypochondria’ I’m sure many people envisage a germaphobe or a comedy sketch with Dr Google sentencing me to death. It is and was, however, a serious and debilitating form of health anxiety which affects me in profound ways. I’m sure many will think that it’s such a privileged standpoint, to be worrying about these illnesses and never actually have them. But it really is rough, intrusive and overwhelming. I’ve written a more specific post about Hypochondria and you can find it here.

In May 2017 at age 24, the symptoms that I had gotten at age 17 came back. Without going into too much detail, I ended up getting a procedure done to screen for Cancer. This was the ‘invasive’ screening that the doctors in my teens had told me I was too young to go through, and good grief were they right. Let’s just say it involved a needle and an ultrasound machine.

When I got to the screening clinic I had no idea that I would end up getting this procedure. I was greeted by two lovely smiling receptionists and sat down in the reception amongst the rest of the people waiting. I was called through to a doctors office and I remember it being oddly dark in there. I’m sure there’s a technical or medical reason for it but it made the experience extra trippy. For the life of me I can’t remember the Doctor’s name. I only remember that she looked like Charlotte Rampling and that she was a little bit scary (though I expect anyone holding a needle with the intention of stabbing you with it is terrifying).

What I do remember though, was Louise. Louise was the nurse that called me into the room and stayed with me the whole time. I remembered her name because she was like my guardian angel that day. Thank the stars for her. When it all started she held my hand as if I was her own daughter, and I just kept wondering how many hands she’d held before.

As I looked at the details of one particular ceiling tile I realised my feet were freezing cold. I had my running shoes on and I remember looking down at them, desperately to put the thoughts of illness and disease and infection out of my mind, and to quiet the voices asking ‘did she sterilise that needle?’ and ‘what if she finds something?’. On the other side of the room I could see my boyfriend who was told he had to stay on the other side of the half drawn curtain. There was a piece of fluff hanging from the ceiling vent and I stared at it… and stared and stared.

When the procedure started the Doctor said ‘You poor girl’, and I just kept holding Louise’s hand. And Louise was there. She didn’t know that I was already envisaging my own funeral, or picturing my immune system being set upon by bacteria shaped monsters. But Louise was there and she made everything seem okay, because she’s a bloody good nurse. When it was all finished Louise took us out of the room and asked me how I felt, I said ‘tired’ and she said ‘me too’, she was definitely more tired than me. I went home, ate monster much and watched Lilo and Stitch.

For the first time in a long time, I couldn’t obsess about an invisible illness or an itch or a dirty hand rail on the tube, I had finally seen what I had been terrified about for so long, and it was smaller than an MnM. The fears of death and illness were suddenly replaced with rationality and planning calmly for the various scenarios that might surface.

When it all came through clear, I was relieved, but I also felt silly, and thankful, and blessed that we have a National Health Service in this country with hundreds of thousands of of Louises.

The NHS is immeasurable, irreplaceable and essential. But it’s slowly being driven to the point of total breakdown. Louise does a job that I could never do, she sees people through their most vulnerable times with a smile and profound strength. I have friends who are nurses, I have a boyfriend who’s training to be a doctor, these people are amazing and I honestly couldn’t imagine having to do what they do. The NHS has been incredible to me. It works, and it works hard.

I hope we can continue to spread our stories and share our gratitude towards the NHS staff who have held our hands, saved our lives, helped us through illness and fought for us. In a world full of hatred, selfishness and fear… I think we should all strive to be a little more ‘Louise’.

The Ship Might Sink

This blog post was my first ever, and for some reason I deleted it. I’m not sure why but I only recently found it and decided it deserved a re-upload. Since starting my blog, my grandparents have sadly both since passed away, but they stay with us in memories such as this. I hope you enjoy this old blog post which explains my blog title.

When me and my family used to sit at the dinner table for our weekly visit to my Grandparents’ house we would listen to the most obscure stories. Within them were some utter gems, and some of the most poignant, rare observations came from my Grandad, (affectionately known to us as Mandad).

One of these hidden gems seemed to come out more often than others. Imagine this, my sister is happily digging in to her meal but, like she does every week, she leaves her meat until the end. Mandad notices this, and looks on with narrow, but jovial eyes and says “Jessica! Why are you leaving the chicken?” for what seems to be at least the fifth time, and we see where it’s going. “I’m just leaving it till last…” she says with a smile “…because it’s the best bit!”. And now Mandad lets out that signature phrase we’re all waiting for “Ah, but Jess! The ship might sink!”. What’s the moral of that story? Well, we had no idea, so we asked. “Well, when you’re on a ship you never know when it might sink!” says Mandad “So, you always eat the best bit first, because it might be your last meal, or you might need that strength when you get shipwrecked!” He exhales a loud chuckle, we giggle, and Jess saves her meat till last again.

The more I heard this reappear in conversation, the more insightful it seemed. “The ship might sink” kept playing over and over as such an interesting message. “The ship might sink”, is just like saying live life to the fullest and take every opportunity as soon as possible before it passes you by… Obviously it’s a bleaker way of saying it, since in Mandad’s version you are looking at some kind of naval disaster, but it makes for an interesting blog title. And the ship sinking isn’t just a metaphor for death, or anything else which is as severe and sombre. I think the ship just signifies an opportunity, a time in which you need to seize your destiny, and try not to make the mistake of playing it safe.