The doctor from Britain went over the blood tests and the ultrasound, and I have to admit, I wasn’t listening. I was trying to think of all the things I might want to do in the time I had left. It’s funny how the anticipation of bad news can drain the life out of you. I mean, you’re not dead, but the prospect of having someone tell you that you’re dying is exhausting.

“Has anyone explained the situation to you yet?”

Whenever Mimi goes to the doctor with me, she does most of the talking. She asks all the questions. She even takes notes.

“Pancreatic cancer?” Mimi asks, as if this was an option rather than the answer.

“Who told you that?”

No one had actually said “cancer.” My doctor had talked around it. A “growth on the pancreas” and “wasn’t expecting to see this” and “you’ll need to see a specialist” was the way my situation had been framed.

So there I was, waiting to hear how long I had to live, trying to come up with a couple of good jokes to break the tension, when the doctor told me that I didn’t have pancreatic cancer.

“I don’t?”

“No,” said the doctor. “You have a condition called autoimmune pancreatitis, or IgG4.”

“And that’s better?” said Mimi.

“It’s a chronic condition,” said the doctor. “It’s not fatal.”

“Is it a precursor to pancreatic cancer?”

“No, it’s not,” said the doctor. “However, the IgG4 has damaged the pancreas, which has caused the diabetes.”

“I’m diabetic?”

“You are now,” said the doctor.

“IgG4.” Mimi rolled the diagnosis around on her tongue as though it were an exotic flavour.

“It’s a somewhat new condition,” said the doctor. “We’ve been seeing it in Asian and American Indian populations.”

I remember Mimi turning to me. “See,” she said, “being Native is lucky after all.”

SO WE’RE IN PRAGUE, and after our dinner at the pommel-horse restaurant, we walk the Charles Bridge and pause in the middle to enjoy the river and the lights of the city. Mimi snuggles up against me. I don’t know if snuggling is any better in Prague than it is in Guelph, and I don’t waste any time thinking about it.

“Did you know,” says Mimi, “that women blink twice as often as men?”

Mimi spends too much time on the Internet, and as a result, she’s always overflowing with irrelevant information that spills out at irregular intervals.

“And did you know that in the Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme, there is no mention that Humpty Dumpty is an egg?”

From the bridge, we look down into Kampa Park and see that a movie shoot is in full swing, the crew laying cables, setting up lights, checking cameras. Dozens of tourists press against the barriers, their iPads and cellphones held over their heads.