He who laughs last has not yet heard the bad news. Bertolt Brecht.

On the 13th November 2006 I attended my mother’s funeral service at my adopted parish church, St. Elizabeth’s of Portugal in Richmond. It was a fairly small turn out, my aunt, Francesca, her mother, my daughters, and some friends from work.
Afterwards, a hearse takes her remains up to the Wirral for burial. This will be in two days time. Unfortunately, I am not fit enough to travel. However, as expected, friends and relatives from the Wirral attend the burial to pay their last respects.

A full two weeks after the operation I go to the out patients clinic at the Royal Marsden for the result of the biopsy. Sadly, the results haven’t come back from
Pathology. They give me another appointment for two weeks.

The days drag by until the appointment. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the tumour is not as serious as it looks in the MRI. Again, I go to the clinic with Francesca. This time the head of the dept. comes into the consultation room. He has the results. He is ‘backed up’ by two other clinicians. The rest is a blur. I pick out the words, ‘not good news I’m afraid’, and ‘malignant’. A seizure that is a size 9 on the Richter scale envelops me. I struggle to stay seated on my chair.
There are no treatment options, its radiotherapy from here on in. Another appointment is made.