Then She Roars

by Vanessa Evetts

  Day one. Tick.

  10

  The next two weeks were a blur. I kept all my appointments, even with reduced hours. Being able to continue seeing clients was important for my psyche and helped me keep my head and heart focused on what I loved.

  I had a few near misses during the first week, managing my nausea until my clients left and then vomiting my guts out in the private toilet attached to my office. I was thankful for the do-not-disturb buzzer on my wrist. Dr Franklin had prescribed some antiemetics, and by Thursday afternoon, I knew I was going to have to fill the prescription. My appointment on Friday was too important to screw up.

  I couldn’t help but smile when Abi wandered into my office.

  “Hey there.”

  “I turned up,” she said, curling herself into the couch.

  “I’m proud of you, Abi.”

  She tucked her thick hair behind her ears, then looked up at me.

  “How was this week?” I saw the crease lines on her face before she thought to filter her response.

  “I had a pretty rough week too,” I said. I was about to break protocol, but there was something about this precious girl that I recognised. I had to earn her trust; I had to show her I was willing to invest something in our time together.

  “You look a bit pale. You sick?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “A bug or something?”

  “Or something … I had chemotherapy.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. Have you been vomiting heaps?”

  I nodded.

  She looked away, pressed her thumbs through the holes in her hoodie sleeves and tucked her legs up beside her.

  I waited.

  Her chest quivered as she inhaled, then exhaled before licking her lips and laying herself on the line.

  “My dad had cancer …”

  “Had?” I asked.

  Her eyes met mine for a second before she looked away as if afraid of the words on her tongue. “He died.”

  “Oh … I’m sorry, Abi. When was that?” I asked, wanting her voice to silence my own thoughts.

  “Four years ago. I was twelve. He was my hero.”

  I saw the first tear fall as if in slow motion, bouncing and glistening on her cheek.

  “He loved fishing, hiking, camping and stuff like that. Anything in nature. Since I was an only child, I got to do it all. I loved it.” She continued in a whisper. “It's just Mum and me now. She tries … but it’s not the same. She doesn’t get me like Dad did, but … lately it’s like I’m forgetting what it felt like to have a dad. I miss him.”

  “What do you miss about him?”

  “He played electric guitar in a band. He always took me with him. We used to listen to music together. He loved rock and roll.” Abi’s eyes darkened before she thought to lower them.

  “Do you love rock and roll?”

  “No.” She clenched her teeth and retreated behind her prison walls, where she felt safe.

  I allowed the silence for a while, then decided if I was going to hell for ignoring the code of ethics, I might as well go all the way. “Can I tell you something, Abi? Something I haven’t told anyone?”

  She turned her legs and face towards me and nodded.

  “I have breast cancer with involved lymph nodes, and to make it even more exciting, I have the BRCA1 gene mutation. Do you know what that means?”

  “Isn’t that what Angelina Jolie had?”

  I nodded.

  “So, are you going to have a masec … mastec …?”

  “Mastectomy. Yes, I am.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Are you going to die?” Abi’s eyes widened, as if she was shocked by her own question.

  “I hope not.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Can I be honest with you?” I asked.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Some days, the fear of dying is a black cloud that follows me around, and I struggle to get out from underneath it. Some days it feels like I can’t even breathe.”

  Abi’s eyes glistened and her cheeks flared as she clenched her teeth.

  “On Monday, I felt like that,” I continued. “But then something changed, and I felt different.”

  “What happened?”

  “I roared like a fierce lioness protecting her young, told cancer to go to hell, then put on my sexy black heels with the red soles – you know the ones?”

  She nodded, intrigued.

  “And I strutted into chemo ready to take on the world.”

  “You actually roared out loud?”

  “So loud. I’m surprised no one called the police.”

  Hope sparked in the room as Abi came alive.

  “You have a beautiful laugh, Abi.”

  Her brow furrowed. “It's been a while.”

  “That makes it even more special that you’ve shared it with me. Thank you.”

  “How did it help? The roaring, and the shoes. You still have cancer. You still might …” She couldn’t say the word.

  I said it for her. “Die?”

  “Yeah,” she said, the crease between her brows more pronounced.

  “It helped because I took my control back. Cancer, sickness, pain, abuse, grief and heartache – they take over. They control your thoughts, your actions, your relationships, the way you think about yourself, right down to your clothing choices.” I jiggled my eyebrows at her in jest.

  “Hence the red-soled stilettos,” she countered.

  “Precisely. I needed to tell cancer I wasn’t going down without a fight. I needed to roar like a lioness and tell that beast to back the hell off. I needed to play a different record in my head – one that didn’t replay ugly words like death and terminal over and over. I needed to control the soundtrack. The roar was like a bright red reset button and it felt amazing.”

  She hesitated. “Can I show you something?”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  Abi rolled her hoodie sleeves up and turned her wrists over revealing slash marks down the length of both forearms in various stages of healing.

  My heart leapt towards her, craving the right, the freedom to comfort her. “Do you know why you cut?”

  Abi shrugged. “I like the pain; it’s easier … than …” Her trembling lips closed around the words.

  “It’s easier than the invisible pain you carry inside?”

  Abi scrunched her face in an attempt to control the onslaught of tears.

  I reached forward to draw her hands towards me and then laid my arms on top of hers. “You wanna be a lioness with me, Abi?”

  She wrapped her fingers around my wrists, and I had to fight back my own tears. “What’s something that runs through your head when you’re cutting?”

  She squeezed her eyes tight.

  “Tell me the first thought that pops into your head.”

  “That I’m invisible … but then, I don’t want to be seen,” she said.

  “And?”

  “That I’m worthless.”

  I held her tight as her warm tears touched my skin.

  “That I’m ugly.”

  “Are those things kind, Abi?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are they true?” I asked.

  Her brow became more pronounced.

  “Look at me.” I waited, then repeated the question. “Are those words true?”

  She couldn’t answer; the lies in her head had too strong a hold.

  “Do you think the people who love you most believe that you’re ugly or worthless? Do you truly believe they can’t see you? Don’t care that you’re in pain?”

  “No,” she exhaled.

  “So, let's replace those thoughts with truth. Every time you tell yourself you’re ugly or you’re worthless or invisible, you raise your chin and say ‘I’m beautiful’ or ‘I’m loved’ or ‘I’m purposed’ or ‘I’m talented’ or ‘I’m seen’ – whatever resonates with you. And you tell that ugly voice
to bugger off.” I released her and leant back in my chair.

  “What if I don’t believe it?”

  “You won’t at the beginning. That's okay. You repeat it over and over again until you do. Words are powerful weapons, Abi. You have to make a conscious decision not to use them against yourself.”

  “Is this what you do when you’re having a bad day?”

  “I do it every day. I stand in front of the mirror naked—”

  “Does it have to be naked?”

  I laughed. “You can wear whatever you want. It’s about taking your power back, remember.”

  “And you find your power when you’re naked?” Abi smiled, and I couldn’t help thinking I was catching glimpses of the real Abigail.

  “It’s looking that way, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, so you’re naked, then what?”

  “I speak my affirmations, even when I don’t believe them, especially when life is giving me a hard time. Then I put on my red lippy and my stilettos, and I walk out into my life with my head held high.”

  “And sometimes you roar,” Abi added.

  “And sometimes I roar,” I agreed.

  My watch vibrated to indicate the end of the session.

  “How about you give it a go this week?”

  “I don’t know; it’s a bit out there.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it,” I said with a smile.

  Doubt clouded her expression, but there was a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

  “This time next week.” It was an undeniable statement with the subtle soft edges of a question.

  “I’ll turn up,” Abi said, then did a sudden 180 and stared right at me. “Don’t die.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I squeezed her arm gently, and she let me. Progress.

  Curled up in bed later that night, utterly exhausted, I marvelled at how my experience had spoken to her. I may have crossed the line sharing about my life; in truth, I did a full run-up and triple backflip over it. I should be impressed by my athleticism really.

  I’ll turn up, she’d said.

  I’d been granted one more week.

  11

  By the third week, I was feeling almost normal: energetic, hopeful, motivated. I skipped the antiemetics, ate food which I actually enjoyed and even managed a leisurely jog around the park every morning. But by Sunday, my heart was heavy with the knowledge that I was expected to turn up to chemo in less than 24 hours and fill myself with a drug that made me feel like death warmed up. It’s a sick joke the way they wait until you feel good to stick it to you.

  I didn’t have the will to jog today – I ambled, I watched, I grieved. I engaged in the fantasy of walking hand in hand with Harry as loved up couples meandered past me, oblivious to my torment of searching for his face in every male I saw. I sat on a park bench and tried to find joy in watching young children playing and feeding the ducks, but all I found was the painful reminder that I’d never be a mother. Hours passed like minutes, and the burden of my loneliness squeezed like a vice.

  When the heavens opened, I raised my face and leant into the cool embrace of rain, then wandered home, picking a rustic collection of wildflowers on my way.

  After I’d shucked my wet clothes and showered, I grabbed my cell, climbed into bed and dialled an international number. It was time.

  “Avery?”

  “Hey bro …” I held the phone to my ear and covered my mouth to stifle my emotional collapse, the sound of his voice proving too much for my fragile heart.

  “I’m here, sis. I'm here.”

  “I … know,” I blurted out in between sobs. “I’m … sorry.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, my brother covered me with his compassionate presence; even with the distance, I felt it deep in my soul as I tried to bring myself back from the brink. I didn’t know how I felt when I heard his whispered prayers, but I let him love me in the way he knew how.

  When my tears had run dry, and the hysteria had passed, I silenced him with my dark secret.

  “I’ve got cancer.”

  “What? You’ve got c …?” Like Abi, he struggled to voice that ugly word. “Ave … tell me.”

  I gave him all the sordid details – the doctor in him needed to know.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When do you start treatment?”

  “Three weeks ago,” I admitted.

  “Ave, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. But I can’t do this on my own, Coop. I thought I could, but I can’t.” My voice faltered.

  “Oh, sis. I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked and the sound of it tore at my weakened resolve.

  “I’m sorry, Coop. I didn’t want to lay this on you; you’ve got enough to worry about. It’s not like you can do anything.”

  “Like hell I can’t. I’m coming home.”

  “You can’t do that, Cooper; you’ve got the clinic and Libby and people who need you. I’ll be fine. I just needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”

  “Ave, you need me.”

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t, that I’d lived seven years without him, that I have a support system, but I couldn’t make the lies form on my lips.

  “Your silence is all the answer I need. Give me a few weeks to sort out cover here, and I’ll book flights – okay?”

  “No, Coop, I don’t want you to come home. I don’t need that; I need you to live your life, to love your life … do that for me.”

  “Who else do you have, sis? Sally can’t carry this on her own. Do you have someone I don’t know about?”

  Not even the thought of Harry pierced the truth of his words. I’d made my decision. “No.”

  “I’m coming home then. For a visit for starters, then we’ll make a plan.”

  “Okay,” I said, too grateful to argue. My brother was coming home from Kenya for the first time in seven years. “I miss you, Coop; I didn’t realise how much until I heard your voice.”

  “I love you too, Riri. I’m glad you called. When’s your next chemo?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Six pm, on Sunday.”

  “Okay, sis, I’d better shoot – I’ve got a patient waiting for me. Listen … you’re the strongest chick I know, you can do this thing, and don’t forget … miracles happen. I’ve seen many with my own eyes over here. I’ll be praying for yours.”

  “Please do.” I could use all the help I could get.

  I woke up Monday morning feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks. I showered and ran a physical inventory, taking note of any changes. I’d lost weight, the result of a few weeks of random bouts of vomiting. I covered the black circles under my eyes with concealer and added colour to my cheeks. Then, on went the red lippy and favourite stilettos.

  I stood back and studied my reflection, spotting her as a gleam in my eye. There she was, that lioness inside of me who rose from the dirt to claim her victory. She’d fallen asleep on her watch for a moment there, but now she was back, wide awake. “We’ve got this,” I claimed, then picked up my handbag and strode into the world.

  I had a quick errand to run before chemo and intentionally, only left myself ten minutes to get up to the ward. The temptation to skip the appointment and wander down to the park – to see if I could accidentally on purpose run into my Prince Charming – was real. I paused for a second at the entrance, my head telling me to keep walking, my heart telling me to turn around and give it what it wanted.

  I didn’t. Not today. I put one sexy stiletto in front of the other and pushed the stair door open, closing the cell door on that fantasy and turning the lock.

  12

  “Hollywood is back, ladies,” Sammie announced from her regular spot in the corner when I stepped into her line of sight.

  Her bright red lippy lit a spark of joy in me, which burst into flame when I spotted a number of bright red lips puckering in my direc
tion.

  “My goodness, you ladies are looking mighty fine this morning.” I dropped a pharmacy bag into Tracey’s hands before taking my seat. “Help yourselves.”

  I turned back to Sammie. “I didn’t think you’d be here this week.”

  “Platelets.” She motioned towards the bag of yellow liquid hanging above her.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, Hollywood.”

  I closed my eyes when Tom put the line in and thought back to that first appointment with Dr Franklin. Never in all my years had I behaved like that, but somehow the knowledge that life as I knew it was over had stripped me of all reservation and filter and birthed in me a desperate need to take hold of every possible sliver of life I had left. ‘Bring a friend,’ he’d said, and yet here I was again without one.

  When Tom finished and left me to it, I leant back in my chair and surveyed the room. I watched as these women, these strangers up until three weeks ago, chose their favourite shade of red and passed the bag on – and realised … they were my people.

  “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve painted my nails.” Tracey twisted the cap off the bottle of deep red polish in her hands. “Who knew such a simple thing could lift your spirits?”

  “I know!” countered Annie, holding her left hand up to check out her new look. “Who needs boobs anyway? A wee bit of red nail polish and you feel like a new woman.”

  “Preach it, sister,” Thomas added as he wandered back into their space. “You want me to do the other hand for you, Annie?”

  “That depends,” she replied jovially. “Are you going to make me look like I’ve been attacked by a rabid racoon?”

  “I’m a man of many talents, my dear.” He lowered himself to one knee at her feet and offered his hand.

  “Oh, Thomas, that’s enough to make a girl swoon.” She threw her free arm up to her forehead.

  The room erupted with laughter.

  “You gonna propose, Tom?” Sammie batted her eyelashes.

  Thomas winked then turned back to Annie and took both hands in his with great care. “Annie, sweet Annie, would you do me the honour of …” He cleared his throat. “… allow me the honour of painting your nails today and any chemo day after?”