It’s autumn, and outside the ochre leaves of the silver birch are falling to the ground like confetti. I’m sitting at my desk, staring at my laptop.
I am making progress. For the first time since my diagnosis, I have managed to type the name of my cancer and the word ‘prognosis’ into a search engine. Now I’m trying to work out if I should hit the return key.
There’s a fork in the road. Ahead of me lie two possible futures. In the first, I decide not to press the button. I channel my inner ostrich: what I don’t know can’t
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