“I so wish,” I say to Suzie, “what I wish, what would help, is if they told my parentals the results of scans…and if the parentals told me what is helpful for me to know as in…”
“But, I mean, I would want to know The Truth,” Suzie says, eating her avocado.
“You don’t know what you would want,” I say. “You’re not terminally ill and…”
“Yeah but this…I mean… So you say you want to be more grown up, to have independence and…”
“Yeah but…I mean, I’m susceptible and, you know that if…so, you know in Victorian times and…”
“Much later than that,” Suzie says.
Thinking of Ralph in Portrait Of A Lady, fading away on his sedan chair in the garden.
“Anyway,” I say. “It’s better for patients to believe they’ll get better isn’t it.”
Thinking on this now.
“So, it’s spread to your lungs,” my oncologist says today.
Why-tell-me, I think. Tell the parentals if you want but, seriously, am feeling OK. There is no value in you telling me that everything is, in fact, so much worse than it feels.
“It included a place for Blondie, Hitler’s dog,” Hitler’s Bodyguard tells us. We’re in 1945. Very soon Blondie will be dead: killed because he couldn’t be allowed to live not in the Thousand-Year-Reich.
Anyway. The cancer is in my lungs. Fingers crossed that something can be done about it…
*2008. 13 episode mini-series. Narrated by Robert Powell. An absolute joy…