My first love, Daniel, is dying. The cancer has returned, and the prognosis is not good. He has about six months to live, two years at the most.
I’m in Melbourne on business, and I meet an old friend at a pub. She has heard the news from a mutual friend but she is not a good gossip and she hasn’t retained the detail. What kind of cancer, what treatment? How is he feeling? “I’m sorry, darling, all I know is it’s something to do with men’s bits,” she says. “I thought you would want to know.”
I don’t react, not then. I utter a few words of condolence and the conversation moves on. But I turn the news over in my mind all evening. What kind of cancer could it be? Not prostate, surely. It’s an older man’s disease. It feels strange to even consider it.
This is an extract of a story which appeared in the 9 November 2024 edition of The Sydney Morning Herald’s Good Weekend magazine. You can read more here.
Illo: PAULA SANZ CABALLERO/ILLUSTRATIONROOM.COM.AU