extreme she would become, if she didn’t extricate herself from that life.
2 February 1998
I was compelled to leave her in Belo Horizonte after two days—despite the fact that she had begun to unravel somewhat. I had to travel back to Pernambuco and return the boat that I had hired, as just another tourist, for a week. It doesn’t do to leave loose ends. From there I went back to Washington, where I was supposed to be buried in the Library of Congress, hard at work. I picked up, as I knew I would, a dozen or more messages.
My headache was intense. I spent the day lying down in the dark. The change in air pressure on the flight was only partly responsible. The first time I flew after the diagnosis—it was a short hop to Rome—I thought perhaps I would die on the plane. After all, my physician had said she could not advise it. Though neither had she advised against. Will it make the tumor worse? I asked. “There is no evidence,” she said, “that air travel will predispose such tumors to grow or bleed. The risk is one of medical isolation. I’d be inclined to stay on the ground.” Always hedging her bets. She possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the brain and its malignant growths, does Dr. Patel. When she is able to speak in the abstract, as sometimes I encourage her to do, she can grow quite animated—the joy of speaking to a fellow PhD holder, though our fields are worlds apart. But ask her anything practical as it relates to my own condition and she grows rather sullen, as if I am trying to catch her out.
I thought it would be politic not to mention my anaplastic oligodendroglioma (what anagrammatic charms!) to the airlines when booking the flights. Naturally I would be mortified if I caused any inconvenience by keeling over in midair, but needs must, as the saying goes. I’d read up on civil litigations about passengers who had made similar disclosures and were subsequently denied the right to board.
So I lay in a darkened room in Washington, after the deed was done, wondering if my head would explode. It did not. I didn’t return the calls for another day and by that time, everyone seemed to have forgotten that they had called me in the first place. Apart from dear old Patricia, who assumed I had been too distressed to speak. There had been no official declaration yet. “But they’re not talking about search and rescue anymore, they’re talking about recovering a body, if anything.” There was that trace element of excitement in her voice that goes hand in hand with relating only distantly connected calamities.
I told her I’d be on the next available flight.
She took a deep breath, my little sister. “Is it wise?” she said. Although she is admirably restrained in keeping her opinions to herself, I know she fears I am shortening my life each time I step on a plane. She may be right. Who knows? Certainly not Dr. Patel.
“Everyone’s so . . . stunned,” she said. “I keep thinking about that time you brought her round for tea, how lovely she was, how natural, asking about the kids, admiring the garden. And then she did the washing up! I tell everybody that. And to think of her . . . Do you think . . . do you think it really was . . .”
She was overcome, either by emotion or the delicacy of the situation. Although the endless media speculation was of sharks, Patricia found the word unutterable.
3 February 1998
It was as I had planned. Had I selected the main beach of Boa Viagem, where there are notices warning that “bathers in this area at a greater risk of shark attack,” it would have created a media storm when she insisted on taking her daily swim. Surfers are eaten with some regularity, but a princess is a different matter entirely. The beach I had selected was quite some distance from the Recife/ Boa Viagem area and it was generally considered safe and the waters calm. What I had weighed in my calculations, however, was that five or six years ago, shark attacks in Boa
2 February 1998
I was compelled to leave her in Belo Horizonte after two days—despite the fact that she had begun to unravel somewhat. I had to travel back to Pernambuco and return the boat that I had hired, as just another tourist, for a week. It doesn’t do to leave loose ends. From there I went back to Washington, where I was supposed to be buried in the Library of Congress, hard at work. I picked up, as I knew I would, a dozen or more messages.
My headache was intense. I spent the day lying down in the dark. The change in air pressure on the flight was only partly responsible. The first time I flew after the diagnosis—it was a short hop to Rome—I thought perhaps I would die on the plane. After all, my physician had said she could not advise it. Though neither had she advised against. Will it make the tumor worse? I asked. “There is no evidence,” she said, “that air travel will predispose such tumors to grow or bleed. The risk is one of medical isolation. I’d be inclined to stay on the ground.” Always hedging her bets. She possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the brain and its malignant growths, does Dr. Patel. When she is able to speak in the abstract, as sometimes I encourage her to do, she can grow quite animated—the joy of speaking to a fellow PhD holder, though our fields are worlds apart. But ask her anything practical as it relates to my own condition and she grows rather sullen, as if I am trying to catch her out.
I thought it would be politic not to mention my anaplastic oligodendroglioma (what anagrammatic charms!) to the airlines when booking the flights. Naturally I would be mortified if I caused any inconvenience by keeling over in midair, but needs must, as the saying goes. I’d read up on civil litigations about passengers who had made similar disclosures and were subsequently denied the right to board.
So I lay in a darkened room in Washington, after the deed was done, wondering if my head would explode. It did not. I didn’t return the calls for another day and by that time, everyone seemed to have forgotten that they had called me in the first place. Apart from dear old Patricia, who assumed I had been too distressed to speak. There had been no official declaration yet. “But they’re not talking about search and rescue anymore, they’re talking about recovering a body, if anything.” There was that trace element of excitement in her voice that goes hand in hand with relating only distantly connected calamities.
I told her I’d be on the next available flight.
She took a deep breath, my little sister. “Is it wise?” she said. Although she is admirably restrained in keeping her opinions to herself, I know she fears I am shortening my life each time I step on a plane. She may be right. Who knows? Certainly not Dr. Patel.
“Everyone’s so . . . stunned,” she said. “I keep thinking about that time you brought her round for tea, how lovely she was, how natural, asking about the kids, admiring the garden. And then she did the washing up! I tell everybody that. And to think of her . . . Do you think . . . do you think it really was . . .”
She was overcome, either by emotion or the delicacy of the situation. Although the endless media speculation was of sharks, Patricia found the word unutterable.
3 February 1998
It was as I had planned. Had I selected the main beach of Boa Viagem, where there are notices warning that “bathers in this area at a greater risk of shark attack,” it would have created a media storm when she insisted on taking her daily swim. Surfers are eaten with some regularity, but a princess is a different matter entirely. The beach I had selected was quite some distance from the Recife/ Boa Viagem area and it was generally considered safe and the waters calm. What I had weighed in my calculations, however, was that five or six years ago, shark attacks in Boa
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