THIS THING was booking. It was laying rubber, making tracks.
It was like the days after a natural disaster, a landslide or a flood, the speed of things. It was fucking unbelievable.
First Hannah arrived on Tuesday morning and set herself up as Ginny’s nurse. It was her role by rights. They were kindred spirits, Ginny and Hannah, and Hannah knew how to ease the petty indignities of the illness in a way the rest of us did not.
Dad next, in the afternoon, a six-hour drive alone with his thoughts and his sad country and western songs. Ginny asked us to think of practical things for him to do. She knew it would be especially hard on Dad, the cancer - God, that word - but there was nothing practical to be done.
All he or any of us could do was wait, and fret, and try to get a handle.
At 5 p.m. my parents and I kept an appointment with our GP, Doctor Lau. We sought answers. We sat in his too-small office smelling of medicine and the elderly, with the years-old magazines and the green plastic-wrapped examination bed, and didn't get any.
Doctor Lau was vague. Vague in a way that said he didn’t want to steal our hope but of hope there wasn't much. I wouldn’t stand for it and kept hitting him with questions. How long? What can be done? Give us your opinion -
Scrabbling for something.
Finally Doctor Lau said, "I'm very sorry but there's nothing to be done except to make Ginny comfortable. You should prepare yourselves. It is likely weeks, not months.”
We crumpled. It was a quiet car-ride back. In a tired voice Ginny asked what Doctor Lau had to say. It was our turn to be vague.
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