We hug across the gearbox console. I tell her I love her very much and she tells me she loves me too. I drive around the block of her school for her red face to clear and for her to stop hiccupping with upset. I beg her to forget everything bad that sprang out of my mouth. That I am a fool at the mercy of my diagnosis. That I lack the necessary control to be a proper father to her. She says she wants me to be her dad, none other, and that she loves me and she will be fine in a minute or two. She offers me my soaked handkerchief. I tell her to keep it in case she needs it again. She says that she is fine. We have never been closer and with such intensity—thanks to my cancer. We are late for the start of her school day. I tell her if she feels bad just call me or text and I will leave work and pick up her in under ten minutes. She says she will be fine, really. That I shouldn’t worry. That she feels better. She asks me how I am doing. I tell her I feel better too. We part with a brief lock of eyes and hurried mutual I-love-yous. Thank you, cancer. I called you a f*cker for turning up uninvited and ruining what was supposed to be the party of my life. Now I thank you. You turn up the intensity in my routine domesticity.
— Fred D’Aguiar, Year of Plagues: A Memoir of 2020 (Harper, August 3, 2021)
Notes: Three Sharply Observed Books Showcase the Enduring Appeal of Memoirs About Dealing With Disease (NY Times, Aug 2, 2021)
Live & Learn 
heartbreakingly beautiful
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It is…
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Wow. What a harrowing passage….
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Yes…
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so powerful and heart-wrenching…
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That it is…
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The detail takes us into the scene. I felt like I was right there with them.
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So agree with you Anneli
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His writing swoops us into his very intimate experience. Your writing does that too. Trusting the reader….
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Thank you Valerie. Thank you. I’m 1/4 in and I’m swept away by his writing.
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Oh my… That hit me deeply. And I hope to never find myself in his shoes…
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And I just read the first four pages… had to force myself to close the Amazon page where I could do so! I fear I would have gotten zero work done this afternoon. Kindle version, here we come.
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Smiling.
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You cost me a fortune.
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So beautifully honest, raw and real. 🙏🏻
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Agree!
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oh my – this goes far deeper than skin deep! I see that father with his illness and the child with her deep fear of a looming loss of unthinkable pain. This is writing with one’s own blood and I only hope it sweeps some of the frustration over this devilish illness out of his system.
Thanks for sharing such harrowing but so well written pain.
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Yes. Well described Kiki.
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