The Story of "Hawk"

"Looking for the Breast Imaging Center?" the security guard asked.
Without thinking, I answered, yes.

I wasn't; I had an appointment with the physical therapist to work on my left arm, limited since my second surgery.

I saw the guard again, on my way out.
"You remind me of my wife," he commented.
That's a weird thing to say, I thought. Was he hitting on me?
I smiled, awkwardly.

"You know what gave it away?" he continued. "Your hands and the scarf. My wife's hands got dark when she was in treatment."

Confirmed: he was NOT hitting on me.

"I know. That's one of the side-effects of Taxol. Did your wife have breast cancer?"
He had brought it up. I thought it was okay to ask.
He nodded.
"How's she doing now?" I asked, moving closer, so he could tell me all about her triumph over the disease.

Instead,
he told another story.

"She didn't make it," he responded with the resignation that comes when you finally make peace with the pain. He had a little smile on his lips.
I stood, cemented to that spot for about 10 or 15 minutes
...listening.

I learned that his wife was diagnosed with Stage Four breast cancer in 2000.
He found the lump, but it took a year to convince her to see a doctor.
Eight months after undergoing a bilateral mastectomy, her cancer came back.
He retired from METRO because she needed him. He said family support was important.
His wife died in 2007.

We talked about their dream of traveling across the country;
living without "should haves";
his writing a book.

"How are you doing?" I wanted to know.
"The first two years" his voice quietly trailing behind the memory of that time, "were the hardest. I'm better now."
I forced back the tears.
He changed the subject, "But you keep doing what you're supposed to."
I assured him that I would and said I might see him the next time I visited the clinic.

His name was Walter Hawkins.
"They call me 'Hawk,'" he said.
"Keep telling your story, my friend," I said before turning to leave, no longer a stranger.