You Can

The tears fell quicker than a summer thunderstorm; they hit her faster than the lightning that scared her as a child. It called to her, the sound of death and sang it's lulling song but she would not hear it. Covering her ears like a child would when something disagreeable is said to them she slid down the wall, weeping uncontrollably.

It couldn't  happen. No, no, no. It couldn't. The words fell from her trembling lips into silent lakes and rivers on her callous, wooden floors. She shifted her weight, now dragging her numb legs to her body and holding them to her chest. Her sobs were heavy and weighted in the damp, morning air; she struggled to breathe in the oxygen she so wish to force out.

Time became a wonderland of snow and ice, spring and flowers--a mix of two vastly different concepts that, somehow, made sense. The ragged breathing, that came from her shaking form heaved with each exhale, morphed into quick tiny breaths of frustration. It shouldn't have happened to me. The words seemed to sting her tongue and burn her lips, they were untrue yet she spat them out, the raw, vile words.

Why?--was the only question that seemed to float in her mind, on a sea of doubt and aggression. Life semmed so destructive, so full of evils that it bruried her eyes with tears. She wished she could have the courage and strength she knew so many other women had.

"Catherine?" his voice was her savior from her self-hatred and digust.

With a meek tone she returned his call, "Alex?"

She could imagine him, forehead pressed against the door; straining to listen to her every movement and breath. She was grateful for his love and compassion, her sobs quieted as she struggled, and succeeded, to keep calm for but a moment.

"Can you let me in?" he asked, his voice was coated with concern and tipped with worry.

She quietly let her legs slip forward infront of her and heaved herself off the floor. So many questions burned through her mind as she regained her composure, questions she knew he could help with. With tears staining her floor and face, she unlocked her door and meticulously opened it.

His eyes were red and puffy --he had been crying too-- and full of the same sorrow and hopelessness she felt. He opened his mouth to speak but the words that fell from his lips were meaningless sounds. She just needed to be comforted and his voice soothed her aching heart; she noded slightly and opened the door further. An indication she wanted him to come in.

He smiled weakly and looked at her, "We look horrible."

She couldn't help but laugh and smile at his blunt comment--they always had made her smile. She sighed heavily and the smile wiped away from her face while the tears came back into her eyes. She glanced at him for a moment, her eyes asking him to say something, anything to help take her mind from the pain that grew inside her; mainly to tell her that she would be okay.

He returned her glance with a stern but loving gaze; with his quick, brisk steps he walked into her apartment. Shuting the door he put a friendly hand on her shoulder then closed the door for her and ushered her over to the couch. He knew words were useless, they never amounted to much in times of despair but they could help ease the pain later.

"You can beat it, Cathrine."

"Why did it happen to me?"

He looked at her knowingly and kindly, she knew the answer to this question but yet she would not believe the answer. He spoke softly to her, placing his hand on top of hers, "It isn't just you."

She noded absent mindidly, it was the answer she knew but was hoping was wrong. She didn't understand why it had to happen in the first place, it was such a tragic thing. She couldn't even bring herself to think the word, but she didn't have to.

He frowned slightly and looked into her eyes, "You can beat the cancer."

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I remember looking at the doctor imploringly as she came in, her eyes were set and glazed. Her starch white coat stood out against her crisp hazel-coloured hair and her mouth was firm and formed in a un-friendly smile. Something was wrong.

My eyes met hers and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat, I looked at her, desperate to know. I don't remember hearing the words at first. I just knew they weren't true. I knew that she was lying to me. That it was some sick joke that they were playing on me.

"No."

She shook her head as she looked over her chart, the dark whisps of hair flowing slightly and she repeated the words to me again: "You have Breast Cancer."

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And I did. I beat my breast cancer.