Small things

There’s a brilliant little campaign running on the radio at the moment, from Time To Change. People who have been, or are, depressed talking quietly and matter-of-factly about the little things that make a huge difference to them when they’re ill. One of them says he has a friend who keeps texting to see if he wants to go for something to eat. One says their friends don’t necessarily understand but send cards or messages saying hello every now and then.
Every one of the voices is quietly brimming with appreciation of apparently tiny gestures. “It reminds me people are thinking of me.” “It helps me to know people know and care.”

There was a day, must be almost a year ago now, when I was in work on a late shift and struggling not to turn and run home, or huddle under a desk and bawl my eyes out. I was withdrawn, sullen, in agony and desperately wanted to disappear into thin air, or back to my safe cosy flat. Typing Very Hard wasn’t helping, and I patently hadn’t the concentration necessary to edit video. And then a cup of tea slid into my teary peripheral vision.
“I thought you might like this.”
I nearly dissolved on the spot.
I don’t know if Paul, the lovely lad who sometimes works with us, knew the good he did me that afternoon, but his calm, constant, gentle good humour and initial moment of thoughtfulness meant the world to me. If he was conciously trying to help, he got it bang on. He didn’t try to fix, ask the cause, logic the black dog away; he just kept me in touch with the world by being by my side, with me, no more. Recalling it gets me right *there*. I don’t think I ever said thank you to him properly.

The small things can make a huge difference. A couple of words, a cracking cuppa or a bar of chocolate, a friendly squeeze of the hand. And with that, I have people I must text, and an urge to go make something small but deeply appreciative for certain colleagues.