by I spoke to my brother just after we found out about Dad’s cancer diagnosis. My brother was at the tail end of a three-week stint in North Carolina; he’ll be flying back to the UK tomorrow. His living quarters looked like a public loo, with pipes and shiny paint and bits of zinc.
We remarked how matter-of-fact Dad seemed about his situation. No despair, no blind optimism either, no mention of fights or battles, none of that ridiculous notion that cancer can be beaten by pure strength of will. My brother is thinking of travelling to New Zealand later this summer, but I’m not sure I see the point at this stage. At any rate, we won’t have much idea of Dad’s prognosis until after his operation in two weeks’ time.
Dad showed me on FaceTime some diagrams showing six types of bowel cancer surgery; his will be the least severe, with the smallest section of bowel to be removed. That is at least something.
There’s no let-up to this wet and stormy weather. Matei’s grandmother, who is in her mid-70s, said she could never remember anything like this. Dad informs me that after a very pleasant May, the temperature is now rapidly dropping in Geraldine.
The French Open has reached its half-way point. There have been so many great matches already. It was quite a dramatic day on the women’s side yesterday, with Serena Williams and Naomi Osaka both going out. Simona, after a bumpy ride in her first two matches, cruised through to round four.
Simona is also the name of my next student; our lesson starts in an hour.
