When Dad rang with the news last Sunday I was surprised. Anna was in a coma, not expected to survive the day. My first thoughts were for myself as, I’m ashamed to say, they always are. Why had I journeyed to see her so few times? We’d had a year as she hopped in and out of treatment. What could possibly have been more important? Writing? Like the world isn’t choked with words already. There’d only been one Anna and so few remaining hours on her clock.Our last voice contact had been distressing. She couldn’t stop coughing and I’d been cautioned by the fact that her mother had not made friendly chitchat with me when she’d picked up the phone. What would it take for one of the smiling neighbourhood mothers of my childhood to offer such a frigid tone? Only one terrible thing. I got off the phone quickly…
Anna
If you’re looking for something inspiring to read, check out today’s issue of The Good Weekend which features, amongst other things, an article on Dr Anna Donald, a childhood friend of mine currently battling cancer. And by battling, I mean she’s full of the stuff. She’s supposed to be dead already but against all odds, she’s not. Not that you’d actually be aware you were talking to a sick person if you spent an afternoon with her as I have been doing occasionally this year on my Fridays off. Visiting her is never depressing. She feeds me cake, we bitch about how much we both despised out high school and she chatters on excitedly about the fifty possible options she’s going to explore now that she can’t practise medicine any more, in particular, exotic computer graphics programs – should she be taking a 3-year course or a bunch of short…