I’m Lizzy. I have cancer

“I’m Lizzy. I have cancer.”

She sat down in front of me. For a moment I didn’t know what to do. By that time, I had spent hundreds of hours as a volunteer working with cancer patients. None of them ever talked about it. They didn’t talk about it, because they were flawed. Something was wrong with them, and that something was hurting them. That was their reality. Not mine. They were perfect. Beautiful. And very, very human.

She sat down in front of me. A moment went by. I smiled. “Hi, Lizzy.” And I took her hands in mine. I was painting nails that day. Women. Girls. Some boys, even. Although, I think the boys were only in it for the hand massage. I can’t remember what colour she wanted me to put on; I really tried to. But I have memorised her hands.

Soft and gentle.

Lizzy. She likes plants, a lot, and Christmas too. She finds a childish joy in decorating. And boy, does she resent surprises. Do I like surprising her? Yes, I do. Does she like it? In truth, even though she will fight me on this, I think she does… a little bit, at least.

I met her two years ago. She had cancer. She beat cancer.

Her version of the story is a lot better than mine, but I have only mine to share. I witnessed her illness, and I witnessed her uncertainty. Every week, I took in my place, as bystander. I saw how she fought, and I saw her strength. God was a constant point of conversation, not that I minded that. He is the love of my life too. She told me about her kids and about how much she missed them. They were at home, an hour away. It might not sound far, but distance wasn’t the only problem. Transport. Money. That was the problem. She visited them from time to time, when she could, but a mother’s heart does not belong to herself. I remember learning about the crisis of increasing child-headed households in rural South Africa. I don’t remember learning about single mothers who had cancer. Is there a protocol for that? I think we all know the answer.

I didn’t mention where I met her. It was at Tshwane District Hospital, Pretoria. It is a public hospital, one of the better ones, whatever that means. There are things that South Africa can take pride in. The public health system is not one of them. It is an abomination.

And today, two years later, I am sitting in front of my computer, and I am writing this entry. Lizzy, by her own definition, is my big sister. She is my friend, and she is my business partner. You read that correctly. What business, you might ask? (Well, if you are reading this, I hope you already know.)

It is called EverGrace.

But one of our team members gave it another name, one I might like better. She called it a family – one that sticks with you.