Page 142 of While I’m Still Here

None of the established procedures include her childhood best friend is also her boyfriend, the reserved breast-cancer survivor from her support group is apparently somewhere between boyfriend and emotionally repressed Victorian husband, and you've recently all ended up in the same bed together.

I get out of the car. The penis comes with me. By the time I reach Bea's front door, I've managed to wedge it beneath one arm alongside a bag containing ginger sweets, crackers, mints, crisps, cereal bars, water, lip balm, hand cream, a blanket, two magazines, headphones and three different flavours of boiled sweets because apparently terror has transformed me into somebody's grandmother.

I knock.

Colin opens the door. We stare at each other, then his eyes move down. There is a long silence. “Morning,” I say.

Colin continues staring at the enormous inflatable penis tucked beneath my arm. Eventually he asks, “Why?”

I lift it slightly. “Emotional support penis.” Colin closes his eyes. “It says Fuck Cancer.”

“I can see that.”

“I thought it would lift morale.”

“Whose?”

“Mine, currently.”

Colin steps aside without another word. I walk in, and there she is. Every joke I've prepared disappears.

Bea is sitting on the sofa in black leggings, trainers and an enormous zip-up hoodie, her legs tucked beneath her while Marcus sits in the armchair opposite. Her hair is scraped into a messy bun, and she wears no makeup. She looks tired, but not normal tired. Something deeper has settled beneath her eyes over the last few weeks because apparently recovering from having both breasts removed wasn't enough, and now her body gets to begin another round of treatment.

She's recovered enough for chemotherapy. That's what everyone keeps saying.

Recovered enough. I fucking hate those words. They don't mean well, and they don't mean ready. They mean her body has recovered sufficiently from one awful thing that they're allowed to start the next.

Bea looks at me, then she looks at the penis. Her mouth falls open. “What the fuck is that?”

Thank Christ. “This,” I announce, lifting it proudly, “is Derek.”

Marcus slowly lowers the mug he's holding. Colin closes the front door behind me. “You named it?”

I look at him. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Colin stares at me. “Bea had Margaret and Barbara. Marcus had Nigel. I'm allowed Derek.”

“Barbara was a drain,” Bea corrects from the sofa. “And she's gone now.”

I place a hand over my heart. “Gone but never forgotten.” I cross the room and present Derek to Bea.

She stands and takes him with both hands. The inflatable penis is nearly as tall as she is, so the top half immediately folds over her shoulder. Bea looks down at the words printed along it.

FUCK CANCER.

Her face changes. Tiny… Most people probably wouldn't notice. I do. The smile remains, but something underneath it catches, and I immediately point towards the base of Derek. “I considered getting you a pink one, but I thought Marcus might actually set fire to it.”

That fixes it. Bea laughs, and Marcus looks at me. “There was a pink one?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I considered drawing a ribbon on this one.” Marcus's eyes narrow. “See?” I tell Bea. “He's already furious.”

She laughs again, and for a second the knot beneath my ribs loosens. Then Bea walks towards me. She wraps her arms around my waist. Carefully, because she still moves carefully sometimes. Less than she did immediately after surgery, but enough that every time I feel it, I remember why.

I put my arms around her, and suddenly I can feel how small she is beneath that enormous fucking hoodie. My throat closes.