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I Die, but the Memory Lives onI was sent at once to South Africa. I remember nothing of the journey. But it was an aggressive form of jaundice. (I suspect it was caused by a dirty salad at a restaurant in Pemba in northern Mozambique.) But it wasn't only jaundice. One morning a doctor came to see me. He was obese and was wearing a Jewish skull-cap. I remember my messengers over the years very clearly, all the people who have passed on to me vital information. I did not know his name, but I remember there was sweat on his forehead as he told me, without beating about the bush, that they had found a patch in one of my lungs. It could be ominous. It would take several days for all the test results to come through. Then he went away. I don't think he had looked me in the eye once during the brief time he was in my room. I remember the feeling of paralysis that gripped me. Panic was a sharp hook stabbing into my consciousness and immediately sending signals to all parts of my body. Fear makes itself felt in the stomach as well as in the brain. It was like a frantic telegram being rattled out by a machine inside me. Lung cancer. I hadn't avoided it ...» |
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