And then there was nothing.

Solemnly sat watching the sombre chatter of others.

We sit silently, unable to fathom what is happening.

What do you say when you’re sat in the C ward?

Nothing.

Well other than the usual British small talk:

‘It’s quite hot, ain’t it?’ ‘It’s good they’ve got tea here, right?’

The questions try to hide the reality.

We’re here because it’s here.

There’s no hiding from that truth.

Calamity thy name is cancer.