by Dad’s sister had been in hospital for over a week, undergoing tests. There had been no news, mainly because her family is so dysfunctional. But last night my brother got in touch with our cousin, and he told me that they’d taken a bone marrow sample and the results had come back: she has leukaemia. Blood cancer. She’s in extreme pain and distress. They tried to move her to another (bigger) hospital, but she refused. A basic search tells me that the prognosis of somebody of her age with leukaemia is terrible. After a steady decline over the last few years, in which time she’s become a recluse, this looks like being the end of the line. She’ll be 76 at the end of October. It’s all so very sad. I spoke to Dad this morning; he can’t even face the prospect of making a trip over.
This morning I saw my nephew, bright as ever, on a WhatsApp call with my brother, his age no longer a nothing but a something. He’s got more and bigger and shinier toys than anything we ever had. His latest is an all-singing, all-dancing, garage-and-car-wash set.
