Jenny Diski was writing about it in her book that I am currently rereading. Uncertainty. Living with it. Bearing it when you’ve been told you have between two to three years left. She’s not good with it. Neither am I. Is anybody? And yet that is the reality. We don’t know. We don’t know anything for certain. Ever. In some ways a diagnosis gives one something concrete. Albeit unpleasant. You know you will die. It has been confirmed. Nothing with save you from your extinction. Drugs can lengthen the stay, a little, but that’s all. You, we cannot be saved. She minded. Would I if I’d been in her situation? Tom Lubbock appeared more sanguine. He didn’t express anger or self-pity. Diski rages at times. It is human. Forgiveable. She wants to live. To be with her poet. What of me? And of M. downstairs? Is there more? Is she right?
