![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmZ7PcFhJ4sqGyvjHzxivxLLp3MYuqsoZP2uRQE9LYu8gk/img_7122.jpg)

I felt as if my heart had burst out of my chest; it couldn’t contain my dread.

The walls of the bathroom in my brother’s house seemed to amplify my noise. I looked at my tear-stained face in the mirror and tried to calm myself. I splashed cold water through my tears.



"Get yourself together. You have to go back out there and face her. You can’t let her see your fear. You can’t let anyone see your fear. Fear is contagious." Of course, the mirror didn’t bother to offer me a solution. So, I fixed my face and went back to take my seat next to Jackie with a smile on my face.



We were sitting in the garden. Chairs facing the sun. A sparkling blue swimming pool added glitter to the atmosphere. It was a typical South African summer’s day, perfumed by a sense of celebration and the fire of the braai (barbecue).



My brother knows how to throw a party, and my sister-in-law’s family (extensive) and my family (small) were enjoying the benefits. The mood was festive, and the wine was on tap. But I felt out of sync with my thoughts on Jackie and what she’d just told me. The celebrations seemed inappropriate and out of place.



Over a series of family parties, I found that Jackie, my sister-in-law’s cousin, and I had much in common. We’d go off together and smoke "secret" cigarettes out of my sister-in-law’s line of sight—she’s banned smoking anywhere on her premises. We had so much in common; conversation flowed; the affinity was connective; she could finish my sentences, and when she did, we’d laugh up a storm. She was fun, offered reflective insight and was a ball of energy. Her aura was fierce.



On this particular day, at this particular party, she’d just told me that her oncologist had given her a six-month death sentence. Her mother and I were her only confidantes. The news made the sun too bright, the music too loud, and the world seem like an inhospitable, godless wasteland.



She was thirty-three years old, had a ten-year-old daughter, and her brand new enterprise, which she’d forged with sweat and blood, was taking off like a rocket. Her future was a shiny gem, and it lay in shards at our feet.



What do you say in a situation like that? What do you say? Well, you offer hope; that’s what you do. That’s what I tried to do, and it was uncomfortably inadequate and heartbreakingly transparent—she’d explained that she had absolutely no chance.



She left the party early; her sensitivity knew no bounds! I will always remember her as she was on that day—the picture of health and vitality.



I never saw her again. She was gone in a month. Her mother died six months later of a broken heart, leaving her daughter alone in a pool of abysmal depression.



******************************************************



The horror of it all is fresh in my mind today because I’ve been busy stitching hope into the future. Designing and making a dress for Jackie’s daughter Abby’s prom.



Abby is sixteen and ready to take on the rigors of adulthood. She’s been in my sister-in-law's care for six years now and has blossomed into a beautiful, well-grounded teenager with plans to study for a Bcom LLB. She’s going to be a good lawyer, I think, because, in my mind, her trauma will contribute to her humanity. Whatever she grows into, one thing I am certain of is that I’ve given it my best shot to make her look and feel beautiful when she steps out with her really cute boyfriend on her big night, ready to celebrate her opportunities.


![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmNfNZkpb93PzhGCa5uF7mV7ZRTWJXpMJPQyrXPZSmPjKq/img_7116.jpg)

![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmU4JdJ1xPhW6PHDu7UCAeKdnNAqaMXfmpADhWBaKq6KXf/img_7118.jpg)

![img_3927.png](https://images.ecency.com/DQmVH3gUHmCRE9rt8Qwb74j8gWyg3pTKa1xQ4bLJcQB4JZg/img_3927.png)


Images are my own. Shot using my Ipad