It was a Thursday night in January when my dad called to tell us that my mum was sick. I remember what I was cooking and I remember what was on the telly. She had had an x-ray the previous day, referred by her GP after a persistent (but very minor sounding) cough. She had also started to have some pain in her hips, but we had all assumed it was arthritis and never imagined the two could be linked. The x-ray showed lesions, consistent with tumours, on her lungs, and the doctor had rung to tell her the news. My mum was also a GP and my dad a pathologist. Between them, they knew too much, and they must have known that it was bad. That it was cancer. My mum had a hair appointment that morning and she kept it. I love that she did that. For a short time, we wondered if the lesions on her lungs might be TB. We prayed for TB. She had had it and survived it as …