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She stares at the floor. ‘They’ve suggested I’m referred to the hospice.’ Her face is pale. ‘I should probably talk to Jack, shouldn’t I?’ There’s fear in her eyes as she looks at me.
‘I can call him – if you’d like me to?’
‘It’s probably a good idea.’ She pauses. ‘Nothing against Jack, but I’ve been dreading this.’
It’s devastating to see how weak she’s become, how her speech is deteriorating, how the slightest effort takes it out ofher. But as well as slurring her words, she forgets what we’ve talked about just minutes ago.
There’s nothing I can say. It isn’t always about staying strong and positive; about believing in miracles or reading survivor stories, trying the latest random cure. The reality is that cancer is different for everyone; that sometimes, nothing makes a difference.
Seeing her vulnerability, her anger, her absolute fear, I try to stay strong for her. But when she isn’t watching, it catches up with me, as it does the following day when Jack comes into the shop.
‘How’s it going?’ he says gently.
The kindness in his voice is the last straw. Tears flood down my cheeks. ‘She isn’t good.’
‘Hey.’ He takes one of my hands. ‘It’s OK.’
‘It isn’t,’ I sob uncontrollably. ‘It’s horrible.’ I take the tissue he passes me. ‘I feel like I’m watching her die.’
He stands there for a moment. ‘Why don’t you close the shop for ten minutes? You look like you could use a break. I’ll go and get us a couple of coffees from across the road.’
I nod through my tears. I’m in no fit state to serve my customers looking like this.
As he walks out, I dry my face, glancing at my reflection for a moment. My eyes are red with dark circles underneath, my skin blotchy. Running my fingers through my hair, I take a deep breath, wishing I didn’t look such a mess.
Minutes later, he’s back. Locking the door behind him, I turn the sign to closed. ‘I better not be too long,’ I say to him.
‘Come and sit down.’ Still carrying the coffees, he nods towards the sofa near the back of the shop.
Sitting down, I realise how exhausted I am. Not physically, but deeper than that. Emotionally, spiritually, as though my soul is tired.
‘Have this.’ He passes me one of the coffees. ‘I got this, too.’ He passes me a box. Inside is chocolate cake.
‘Thanks. But I can’t.’ My stomach is tight.
‘Try. It will do you good,’ he says firmly.
The coffee is wonderful. Strong and sweet, just what I need. So is the cake, as very slowly, I feel myself start to uncoil. ‘I didn’t know I was feeling like this,’ I admit.
‘No. All your energy is going into looking after Marnie. When you’re not working, that is… But you need to look after yourself better,’ he says gently. ‘If you burn out, how can you help her?’
‘Thank you.’ I gaze at him. ‘If you hadn’t come in when you had…’
‘I’d planned to call in last week,’ he says. ‘But we were short-staffed and I worked overtime.’
‘I was going to call you later. Marnie’s consultant’s suggested she’s referred to a hospice.’
He nods slowly. ‘I’m guessing that’s freaked her out.’
‘A bit.’ I sip my coffee. ‘More than a bit, actually.’
‘Why don’t you call her now? If she wants me to, I could go and see her and we could chat about it.’
‘It’s a really good idea.’ Finding my phone, I call Marnie, and she sounds grateful.
Ending the call, I turn to Jack. ‘She said she’s at home all day. Forrest’s with her. I got the impression she isn’t feeling so great.’
‘OK.’ He sips his coffee. ‘I can go over to hers when I leave here, if you let me know the address?’
