As the elevator doors closed, I pushed the button for the 8th floor, and suddenly the elevator jerked as it started to lift, and it felt like it fell about a half a foot. I looked at the lady standing next to me, and as I pushed the button to reopen the doors, I said “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting out of here and taking a different lift”. As I stepped out, I realised that I was right, the elevator floor did not line up with the floor into the building now, it was sitting just below floor level.
I stepped into another one of the three elevators and rode this one smoothly up to the 8th floor. As I passed the reception desk, I reported my experience to the nurse on duty, and then continued walking into my Dad’s room and as he lay on his bed, I mentioned to him how scared I was and how the elevator had just malfunctioned.
And that brought up a conversation we had never had before.
He told me years ago, when he was a lot younger, he had been at work, and they were shifting boxes from his workplace and they were stacking them in the elevator to take them to the ground floor. The boxes were piled high to the ceiling, heavy boxes, and there was only room for himself and one of his workmates to fit in to take them down to the ground floor. As his elevator started descending the weight of the boxes caused it to plummet and start freefalling to the ground, by the look in his eyes while he was speaking I could tell that he had been terrified, and he said that the only reason they did not plummet to the ground was because steel had heated up and warped from the heat generated from it falling, and it caused the elevator to slow back down and most likely saved their lives.
Now I don’t know the ins and outs of this story, my Dad didn’t go into the finer details, and my Dad is now no longer alive to ask him.
But the point of my blog is, if we don’t tell our stories, if we don’t share our experiences with our friends and our families, our stories die with us.
I’ve lost both my parents, and I wish that I had of talked to them about their lives more. I wish my Dad was able to find the words to convey his feelings more and I wish I had of asked and prompted him more to share his wealth of knowledge, his stories and his experiences that he contained within himself. I wish he had of spoken up more about his life than what was going on in the news. I wish in his later years, he had of been able to hear my voice better, even with his hearing aids he found it incredibly difficult to hear my voice, and I wish I could have had more conversations with him, better conversations. I wish I knew more about our family history, stories from our family history.
As a mother myself now, I feel it is import for me to share this message with you today, to remind you to share your stories and your experiences with your friends, with your family, with your children, with your nieces, with your nephews, with your aunts, with your uncles, with your grandchildren.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”~ Maya Angelou
Talk, share, converse. Don’t let your stories die with you. Practice finding your words, and the words to express your feelings and emotions if this is hard for you. It’s never too soon or too late to start talking. It’s never too soon or too late to share a legacy of cherished stories that a loved one will one day look back on and remember fondly in the future. It’s never too soon to put an end to what might become regrets, and it’s never too soon or too late to prevent someone else in the future saying “I wish ……….”
Cherished Dad and Al Selfies 🙂
My Dad 23/07/1926 – 03/10/2019
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