Catherine.

February 15, Brownsville.

My mother came home to the news that a good friend of hers had just been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer.
Catherine Cousin-Zouaoui is the most gentle, giving, beautiful woman I have ever known. The idea of her always brought peace to my heart. She's 52 years old and has two sons as close in age as Dylan and Nicolas, now young adults. When my brothers and I were little and she was still living near her parents in the south of France where we were neighbors she used to baby-sit us once in a while. For years mentioning her name inevitably reminded me of one of the few childhood memories I have, that of her chanting playfully to nudge the tiny Fiat she was driving, nicknamed "the yogurt can," as it was struggling up the street leading to our house, us three kids crowded in the back stomping our feet in delight all the way to the top of the impossibly steep hill.
Catherine has hair down to her waist and has had it so ever since we've known her. Her hair is her pride and joy, after her family and her work as a speech therapist at one of Paris' leading public hospitals. She is devastated as much by the unexpected news of her cancer as by the fact that she will not be able to attend to her patients for the foreseeable future as she faces surgery, radiation and chemotherapy all at the same time.
My heart grieves.