Page 33 of While I’m Still Here

Yesterday, Claire asked whether I had someone to call.

I did.

I just didn't call them because saying I have cancer once had been difficult enough. Saying it to my mother, a woman who possesses the emotional restraint of a fire alarm, felt impossible. Colin is standing at the sink rinsing our mugs when I finally speak.

“I have to tell Mum.”

He turns off the tap. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Yes.” The answer comes out so quickly I don't even have the opportunity to pretend I'm independent.

Colin dries his hands and comes back to the table, and I press call. Mum answers on the third ring. “Hello, darling.”

And immediately, I want to hang up. Instead, I force my mouth to work. “Hi, Mum.”

“Are you at work?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.” I hear something clattering in the background before Mum asks, “Are you ill?”

Interesting choice of words, universe.

“Sort of.”

The noise on her end stops. “What do you mean, sort of?”

I look at Colin. He gives me one small nod.

Right.

Just say it.

Rip the plaster off.

“Mum, I went to the hospital yesterday. The breast clinic,” I say before she can interrupt me.

Silence.

Because Mum knows our family history.

She knows exactly why someone gets sent to a breast clinic.

“What did they find?” she asks.

My throat closes, and Colin reaches his hand out to mine. I put my hand in his. “I have breast cancer.”

The sound Mum makes on the other end of the phone is something I hope never to hear again.

Not quite a scream, not quite a sob—just pain.

“Oh, Beatrice.”

My eyes close. “Mum, I'm okay.”

“Don't say that!”

I pull the phone slightly away from my ear. Across from me, Colin winces. “I mean, I'm not okay, okay,” I clarify. “Obviously, because of y’know cancer, but I'm not dead.”