The day the sky fell in

I just read this post on Uma's blog and remembered an entry by Matthew Engel in the Guardian. Engel, for those who don't know, is the editor of Wisden, the yellow book of cricket. Engel's son died recently. He was 13, the cancer was rare and aggressive.

His sense of smell went berserk. He could not bear to be in the same room as a cup of coffee or a dab of perfume; a roast in the oven or chicken soup on the stove constituted torment. A rare meal he was relishing one evening went uneaten because he got whiff of a sprig of mint. His hearing actually became more sensitive, so that, from the first dose onwards, he hated loud noises; he was never again to get pleasure from music. And the music that resounds clearest in my head is the tinkling of Ward 15's dripmachines, warning the nurses that it was time to take action: "Dee-dee; dee-dee; dee-dee."

The whole thing is here. Remember to breathe while you read it.