Page 13 of While I’m Still Here

And now, she’s thirty years old and sitting alone in her flat with a pink folder explaining how they’re going to remove her breasts because she has cancer.

There is no right time.

There never fucking was.

* * *

Tesco is a problem.

Not the milk because Bea always gets Semi-skimmed. That’s the easy part, and so are the custard creams. The problem is the wine. I stand in front of the bottles with my basket hanging from one hand and realise I have absolutely no idea whether you’re allowed to drink alcohol when you’ve just been diagnosed with cancer.

I don’t see why not, but maybe I’m being irresponsible.

Then again, I don’t think there’s a medically recommended beverage for ‘today I discovered my breasts are plotting my murder’.

I pick up her favourite bottle, put it back, then pick it up again.

Fuck it.

Today she can drink the wine, and tomorrow we’ll read all the leaflets and follow the rules. I’ll learn all the words so she doesn’t have to, and I’ll make sure she gets to her appointments and eats something that doesn’t come from the biscuit aisle.

Tomorrow I’ll become extremely irritating about whatever her doctors tell her to do.

Tonight?

Fuck everything else, because the woman I love has cancer. I put two bottles in the basket and head to the checkout.

* * *

By half past eight, one bottle is empty.

This might have been irresponsible, but I can’t bring myself to give one shit.

Bea fell into my arms the moment I walked in the door, then we proceeded to eat enough Chinese food to feed a moderately sized family, although Bea mostly picked at hers before stealing all the prawn toast from my plate. The TV is playing something neither of us are following, and the pink folder has officially been cast to the other side of the coffee table unopened.

Bea is curled into the corner of the sofa beside me wearing an enormous T-shirt and fluffy socks. She’s laughed tonight, which I’m taking as a win because it was a proper laugh.

Three times.

I’ve counted.

I don’t know why I’ve counted… Maybe it’s because every time she does it, something in my chest loosens slightly, because she’s still Bea.

That's what I've needed to know ever since she mentioned the word cancer. Cancer hasn't taken over her completely in the few hours since it was named. She's still happily stealing my snacks, still joking about my choice of TV shows, and still ignoring the fact that she needs to bin the new milk before the current one somehow comes to life.

Still her.

She gets up to go to the toilet, nearly trips over the coffee table, and mutters “Cunt” under her breath.

Definitely still her.

I smile as I reach for my glass, and that’s when I notice the notebook that’s half hidden beneath the pink folder. I’ve seen it before, but Bea owns approximately thirty notebooks because she likes buying stationery considerably more than she likes using stationery.

This one is open. I’m not snooping… that’s important, because I, Colin Fletcher, would never read something private, but it’s difficult not to notice a page when the heading is written in enormous capital letters:

THINGS TO DO NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER

My smile fades. I read every one.