by Yesterday I called my parents to find out Dad’s result. Surely it would be fine. According to the specialist, there was a “90-something percent chance” that his bowel polyp was benign. Dad thought he’d have already heard if something was up. When I got through on FaceTime, Mum had just had a haircut. Her hair is now shorter than mine, and Dad said it looked a bit mannish. Then came the news. “I’ve got bowel cancer,” Dad said. “You won’t be seeing us this summer.” Mum had already cancelled their flights to the UK, scheduled for next Monday.
I hadn’t prepared myself for this news. I thought he’d be clear, but Dad’s life has been put firmly on hold. None of us know where this will lead. Yesterday I looked up some statistics from the NHS: 77% of male bowel cancer patients survive the first year. So, you’re saying there’s practically a one-in-four chance that my dad won’t see out the next 12 months?! My instincts are that he’s caught this early and it’s entirely curable, but as yet, we don’t have the slightest clue. News like this forms a line in the sand. If I see a timestamp on an email or a text message, I’m thinking, was that before or after I heard about Dad’s diagnosis?
Seventy, or thereabouts, seems to be a black spot for cancer. Mum’s eldest brother D died of lung cancer a month before his 70th birthday. Another of her older brothers, M, had just made it to 70 when he died from cancer of the oesophagus. Her younger brother G, who has survived his mishap following his bowel cancer operation, turned 68 in April. G may now need kidney dialysis. Dad will be 69 at the end of June.
I was very much looking forward to spending time with the family. The plan was to go Wales for Mum’s 70th birthday next month, and then for my parents to come over to Romania around 1st July, where we’d spend a few days exploring the cooler north of the country. Meeting my parents off the plane or train is such a lovely thing. But that’s all gone out the window. I might end up making a solo trip to that part of Romania instead, and then travelling to Montenegro by train in August. I’ll have to see.
Life goes on. Teaching is much the same, which is a good thing. The wet and stormy weather – in its fifth week, with no end in sight – is still baffling everybody here, and the pubs and bars and restaurants in the centre of town are losing out.
There have been some engrossing matches already at the French Open, which is a nice escape from everything else. I particularly enjoyed last night’s match between two Frenchmen, Benoît Paire and Pierre-Hugues Herbert. Paire won in the end, 6-2 6-2 5-7 6-7 (6-8) 11-9. I was impressed by the court coverage and creativity of both men, and the match showed why it’s generally a bad idea to leave a match early. I bet plenty of people headed for the exits after the second set, and missed a treat. It also showed me why we don’t need tie-breaks in the final set, least of all on clay, where breaks of serve are more common. But sadly we might be witnessing the last-ever major tennis event without final shoot-outs.
After yesterday’s bombshell, everything is now up in the air.
