The Tumour

I’m only writing this because Dad can’t use a computer. But Mum, or any relatives who might stumble across this, please don’t tell him. Really. You all know why.

So, Mum and Dad were in town recently because Dad had a check up after a prostate operation that had gone well. I was meeting them in the city for a drink.

The three of us sit down in the bar of the club with our drinks and Dad looks me in the eye and pauses for effect:
‘I’ve got a tumour,’ he announces with a stoic tone, despite his stare pleading me to break down and weep, panic, pale, something, anything, as long as it’s dramatic.
‘And…?’ I venture, calmly. ‘What does that mean?’

As you probably know, a tumour just means a lump. Yes, it can be a very bad lump, but it can also be a very benign lump. I wasn’t falling for that old chestnut without more information.

‘Well, it means I’m not very bloody happy, doesn’t it!’, he protests, clearly disappointed I hadn’t responded as he’d hoped.

‘Yes, but what did the doctor say?’ I asked in what I hoped was an encouraging tone, although I was by now, and knowing Dad, pretty sure that it wasn’t going to be bad news.

‘Well, he said not to worry about it,’ he meekly admitted.

‘Right then…’ I said.

So predictable.