While the rest of the crew made their way to Quebéc City, I stayed an extra day in Montreal. Friday morning, the 30th, I arrived by taxi at my mother’s apartment in N.D.G. My stepfather sits on the sofa — gaunt, sickly, he has begun to accept that he has lung cancer, two words that for two years, doctors would not share, nor really seek. The man, pretending to be fine, likely tied the hands of the doctors who (I suppose) are not obligated to fix someone who does not admit to being broken.
My mother and and I were about to vist my grandfather who lives down the street — my uncle Sean lives there too. She telephoned to inform my grandfather that we were on our way over, but the air turns grave — he informs her that Sean has just collapsed, and paramedics were working to start his heart.
I had originally intended to share the many more words I had written about the day, but decided it best to leave the details out.
Sean remained in a coma once brought to hospital.
Sometimes it is difficult to expess with words, sadness. I assume only a few have done it tastefully, because we borrow their words and continue the clichés, which I do not wish to seek.