Written and read by Carmen's niece Evita.

Carmen's niece Evita summed up everything that Carmen's friends and family were thinking. This is what she wrote:

"F" cancer. "F" cancer and the way it robs a person of security. Of stillness and certainty. Of purpose and meaning. "F" the way it steals away the moments of laugher and shadows them with fear. F the way it erases the achievements, the experiences, the castle that was slaved over to build. I hate going to see her, though she tells me it means so much. I hate being faced with her morality. In knowing the possibilities, the statistics aren't the minimal sort that people scoff at before taking a dive. I hate seeing the look in her eyes. Despite the smile she puts on for all of us, I see the pain and the anger. I hate that just when she starts to laugh the impending future reers it vicious head. I hate that she's come to terms with death. It's easy to order her to fight, it's easy to command her strength, it's easy to flood her with nice things to say and assuring pats on the back. It's what people do when there's nothing to say. Everyone's too afraid to tell her that it's okay to be scared, it's okay to be angry, it's okay to want to scream at the top of thier lungs and cry until she's barely able to catch her breath. There are no words to say, nothing I can do to make any of it better. I hate that.

I want to fix it. Like a mother watching her child suffer, I want to pick up the pieces and sew and glue it all back together for her. I want to magically turn the dial and put us back in a time that smelled of perfection and glowed with warmth. I want to hear her laughter without the falling silence moments afterward. I want her to go back to talking about her exciting plans, not the precautionary ones. I want to see the calm serenity in every inch of her face that onced lingered. I want to cradle her in my arms like a child and confidently, knowingly tell her everything will be okay. I want to unzip my chest and tuck her away into the safety of my heart. But I can't. I'm left, like everyone else that loves her to stand aside and watch. It leaves me wanting to rip out my hair, slam my head against a wall out of fear and panic. It all sounds so selfish, but in the end that's what people are. We want the ones we love for us, because we need them. We're so intricately connected that every second she goes through this, we're right there, suffering with her. We feel it, too.