I’m interviewing a woman with cancer.
She’s younger than me - I can tell because I remember walking around in a denim skirt like that when I was twenty-five.
I remember thinking I could go along with everything.
And I remember believing that I was immune to the unsuspecting horrors of misfortune.
She’s showing me around her house while our camera crew sets up outside. Her cat climbs into her arms and she’s wandering around telling me how she fell in love four months before it happened -
before she was stripped of the illusion that time would go on forever.
Don’t worry - she assures me, laughing. He’s at work, so we can talk about anything we want.
I want to tell her about something bad that’s happened to me so she knows I’m not just a dumb white girl waving a microphone around the place. But nothing tragic enough comes to mind.
And so I find myself standing in this girl with cancer’s house fucking thinking about that scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary 2 when Bridget's in a Thai prison and realises her story of struggles pales in comparison to everybody else’s.
It would be too far to make up a lie right now. I don’t but I want to. I say nothing instead.
We pass through her rooms that look like they’ve had the flu for a week; everything a bit unwashed, covered in cat hair and lopsidedly hanging everywhere. There's lots of pamphlets on the table. I try not to read them or think too much.
Sorry for the mess, she says, I’m so embarrassed, as though she can hear what I’m thinking.
And god, now not only am I now thinking of shitty pop culture references, I’m also judging the state of the house of a girl with cancer. I want to leave immediately and donate all my money to a good charity, write letters of apology to anyone I’ve ever said anything bad about, jump in a deep pool and start my life over completely.
Instead I smile and say, are you kidding? It’s great.
Cancer makes you selfish like that. The same way weddings do - in the back of your mind you’re either thinking - why me? Or, why not me? It’s both embarrassing and difficult to reconcile.
Kitchen, bedroom, spare room. We get to the bathroom and the cat leaps from her arms and the girl slowly touches the grooves in the crystals she has on display, thinking out loud.
I was always spiritual but now I really feel things, she says,
picking up an amethyst and rolling it between her fingers. It catches the light. She turns and looks me in the eyes, her skin so translucent and white like a Dove ad from the early 2000s.
I've lost everything soft about myself, she says,
handing me the stone and running her hand over her head patched with baby hair and thin, spidery veins.
I’ve stopped caring because I can’t, she says. I don’t really remember what being beautiful feels like anymore.
My chest falls inwards. She goes on.
All this fucked up stuff has happened to my body and my life, but you know what the weirdest part about it all is? She asks, smiling.
I still feel like I have everything.
And I’m standing there, small and insignificant in her white bathroom in her shared house and
I have never seen anything more beautiful and doomed in my whole life.