"I have cancer and I must undergo treatment, so it is not the best moment of my life," Paul Auster confessed to La Vanguardia during an interview to talk about A country bathed in blood, an essay on firearms in his country . It was the first time he had verbalized it. Days later, his wife, also a writer Siri Hustvedt, gave more details about it on her Instagram account, confessing that they had both moved in a space called 'Cancerland' since December, whose borders are crossed by those who suffer from the disease or love someone who suffers from it
Throughout these months, many readers have been interested in Auster's health and to whom the author has tried to provide information from her social networks. However, since last April she has not written any medical reports. “I have been silent because the territory here in 'Cancerland' is confusing and treacherous. The patient and I with him have gone straight down the road, we have been delayed and we have gone around in circles. We have not reached the sign that marks the border of the country ”, she has written this Wednesday in a new publication.
In her lines, Hustvedt applauds "the dignity" with which her husband "has endured a series of miserable symptoms of both cancer and treatment. She has been unconditional and without complaints, with her humor intact. Auster himself has confessed to her that, as everything progresses, she has spent more and more time "looking into the abyss" but that she "is not afraid of dying." So much so, that during this time “he finished another novel, Baumgartner, which will be published in November. A tender and miraculous little book.
The writer has also stressed that the author of The New York Trilogy “does not want to hide” the disease and that it has allowed her to “tell my experience about it.” And that is precisely what she has done, accompanying her text with two photos of the couple's youth. “In 'Cancerland' there are a lot of middle-aged and elderly people, and we know there are children, but we don't see them because they are cared for in separate places. My husband and I have seen many young people sitting with us in waiting rooms. Their wrinkle-free faces and vigorous bodies often reveal no signs of illness. Sometimes a nice cap covers their baldness, the only sign that they are sick.
“Kindness”, he assures, is being key in this process. “The receptionist's smile matters. The respectful touch of the technician while lifting the patient's arm and preparing it for the needle is important. The nurse and doctor who listen carefully as the patient talks, who allow him to tell his story and explain how he feels, are important. But most important of all are the family and friends who send notes, emails, and make calls. These acts may not alter the outcome of the disease, but they are a crucial part of living it."
