After my dad came back from hospital with his terminal diagnosis he took to his bed. After a few days it dawned on me that, since he wasn’t thinking clearly, he might not have understood that he had only a few months to live. So I went to see him and asked, “did you understand the diagnosis?” He told me, no. So I told him the surgeon had suggested he had, maybe a few months left, at most.
“A few months till I’m better?” He asked. Which, of course, broke my heart. But I still had to find the words to explain the truth. “Should we tell your mum?” He said. And then I knew she hadn’t taken it all in either.