I was 19 and living in Calgary when my mom phoned that July afternoon.

Her voice trembled then trailed off…my best friend, Chuckie, had just died of the cancer she had been fighting for over a year…she was just 18…a month after high school graduation.

I felt like I had stepped outside of myself as I screamed and begged for it not to be true. The rest of that summer was a blur as a painful reality set in.

Chuckie was a beautiful, free spirit—a combination of Avril Lavigne and Madonna—a true original. We were kindred spirits.

When I was told Chuckie had cancer, I didn’t know what to say or how to be. I stayed away that last year because I was scared and didn’t want to say something wrong. Before moving to Calgary that May, I stopped in to say goodbye. She saw beyond my awkwardness and understood why I hadn’t been around. Her forgiving nature was a trait that transcended her own pain.

…

I recall a dream I had a few years ago. I was at my mom’s house and someone knocked on the door. When I opened it, I found myself looking down but yet couldn’t explain why. I saw a person’s pair of shoes that were those floral sneakers without the laces, just like Chuckie wore. As my eyes went up, this person’s outfit changed, becoming more mature as I neared her face.

It was Chuckie.

Her hair was not wild and fun like I remember, but soft, curly, angelic. I was consumed with an overwhelming sense of calm. She smiled her knowing smile and then I woke up.

I was never visited by her before that time, and haven’t been since.

– Helen Bobbitt –

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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