I’ve been seeing a man, David, for a year and a half. He always said, Youre my family. Then I ended up in hospital for three weeks and he didnt visit me once.
Im forty-eight, David is fifty-four. We met on a dating website. It all began in quite a romantic way: our first date was in a small café, and by our third meeting hed brought me a birthday cake hed ordered specially. The icing read: To Emily from someone whos grateful you were born. By then, wed only known each other for three weeks.
David gave the impression of being generous, but in a quiet way. Hed bring flowers just because. Hed suggest a weekend away in the country for a change of scenery. Once, he fixed my leaking tap, and later even paid to have my mums flat decorated. He ran his own repair workshop and lived alone.
Youre my family, Em, he said one night, about eight months in. My sons grown up, my ex-wifes lived far away for ages. Youre all I have.
And I believed him. How could I not, after all those loving words, the personalised birthday cake, the way hed fix things in my flat without a fuss?
Three weeks of silence: what betrayal sounds like when nothing is said
When I found myself in hospital, I didnt feel angry that first week. I understood: he had the workshop, customers, jobs coming in constantly. By the second week, worry crept in. By the third week it was glaringly obvious: he just wasnt going to turn up.
My hospital roommate was Mrs. Margaret Turner, about seventy. Every Saturday her husband would come, bringing a bouquet of flowers. One afternoon, she asked me,
Em, your fella whens he visiting, then? Ive not seen him once.
Hes very busy at work, I said.
She peered over her glasses at me and quietly replied,
Weve all got work, dear. My David still works, but he comes right across town, catches three different buses with his bad back… because theres no way he couldnt come. Its impossible for him not to be here. If a man finds it possible not to come it means its possible he wont stay either, love.
Her words stuck with me. More accurate than anything a therapist could say.
I was discharged on a Wednesday. That evening, David rang.
Emmy, youre out? How about I pop round Saturday, we can have a nice evening?
Saturday. Three days later. Id just come out of hospital after surgery, and he spoke as if we were planning a trip to the cinema.
No, David. Today, I said.
He turned up about two hours later clutching flowers, fruit, and wearing such a guilty expression I nearly felt sorry for him. We sat in my kitchen, and I got right to it:
David, why didnt you visit? Not once?
Em, I called every day.
Yes, you called. But you didnt come. For three weeks. Twenty-one days. I had surgery, anaesthesia, stitches, a raging temperature. I lay in a hospital bed waiting. And you rang in the evening and asked, How are you?
I really meant to come. But work was chaos two big jobs came in, one of the lads left, I was doing the work of three people. I just didnt have the time.
Three whole weeks? Not even an hour? Visiting finished at eight every night. Its forty minutes by car. One hour, out of twenty-one days you couldnt find it?
Em, you dont understand what I was going through. I was worried sick about you, honestly I was. But I couldnt leave the workshop.
Couldnt or wouldnt?
He fell silent, and in that pause I finally saw the truth Id been ignoring for a year and a half: for David, worrying and being present were two different things. And the first was a substitute for the second.
You know, Em, he said at last, voice low, I just I cant deal with hospitals. I dont know how to sit by a bed, looking at drips, pale faces. It shakes me up. My mum died in hospital, you see, and for three years I couldnt even set foot in one. When you called to say you were there I wanted to come, but every time I tried, I just froze. I kept putting it off. And suddenly, days became weeks.
That was the sentence that made my hands go numb. Not I didnt want to. Not I didnt love you. Not I hadnt the time. But: I cant be there when things are bad.
David, I said slowly, youve always been around when things are good. When its cafés, cakes, weekends in the countryside. When theres a tap to fix or my mum needs help with some wallpapering. When Im cheerful and all you need to do is show up for company. But when things got properly hard when I truly needed you you werent there. You rang, but a phone call isnt the same. Caring isnt the same as being there.
I know Im in the wrong.
No, David, its not about blame. This is just who you are. And thats even harder than being at fault. You can fix a mistake, but you cant change your nature.
The bouquet from anothers husband and a decision formed in that hospital room
That evening, he left. I sat drinking tea, thinking of Margaret and her husband David. Three buses, a bad back, fresh flowers every Saturday. No declarations about family. He simply came, because for him, not visiting was out of the question.
But for David, it was possible. Twenty-one days in a row he found it possible. That one word possible told me all I needed to know about a year and a half together.
A week later, David sent a long message. Apologies, promises to change, declarations of love, excuses about being paralysed by fear. I read every word and, for the first time, felt nothing at all.
Words without action are like wallpaper without walls: it might look lovely, but you cant live there.
I didnt reply. Not out of anger or spite just because I finally understood. I need someone who shows up. Not just a call, but someone wholl walk into that hospital room with a bag of oranges, not just ring at eight from habit. The man who simply has to come, because staying away is impossible for him.
The stitches healed. Mum says I look better than before surgery, and she might be right maybe because I removed more than just the bad from my stomach.
But I still want to ask because I know Im not the only one.
Women: have you ever had a man who cared from afar with calls, texts, but never came in your hour of need? Did you forgive him, or did you walk away?
Men: be honest are you the sort for whom its impossible not to come, or do you keep to a phone call when you should simply get in the car?
I don’t know how to be there when things are tough is that really a reason, or just the end for the relationship?
