Free Eternal Journey by Carol Hutton

house. Looking at the clock,
     she saw it was a little past seven o’clock. Suddenly, as if the time gave her permission, she realized she was ravenous. But
     she was also feeling quite sandy, so the shower came first.
    Anna stood in the huge, glass-enclosed shower and let the hot water beat onto her back. She turned very slowly, slid down
     the wall, wrapped her arms around her legs, turned her face toward the pulsating stream, and began to contemplate the day.
     Anna had always concealed or camouflaged her deepest pain, keeping it very private. As she reflected on the day, tears filled
     her eyes, then dropped, becoming one with the water streaming down her face. Anna sat weeping under the waterfall, wondering
     how many people retreated to a shower stall hoping the warm water would wash away their pain.
    Why is it that we only let go in private? Why are we so afraid of going public with our pain? she wondered as she stood and
     turned off the faucet.
    Anna had spent years helping her male clients connect with their feelings, and working with women to understand theirs. She
     found men and women to be different in so many ways but so similar when it came to the important things. After all these years,
     Anna had come to the conclusion that we are all just struggling souls stuck in these funny-looking physical forms, trying
     desperately to make some sense of it all. That is, those who allow themselves to think about or question the meaning of life,
     let alone death. Thinking back to earlier in the day, she remembered how the stranger had wept along with her as she exposed
     her soul. He had touched her heart in a way that no one ever had. Who is he? she pondered, drying herself with the big white
     towel.
    The bathroom had more mirrors in it than Anna had in both of her houses combined. Staring at her reflection in this room of
     mirrors, all Anna could see were her three scars. She had two barely visible incisions, one on each breast, while the fiery
     pink “bikini” line was just starting to fade. These scars, like pain, were permanently etched into her body, yet expertly
     concealed from view.
    Anna knew all too much about cancer. She had been through the drill more than once, undergoing mammograms yearly since her
     early thirties. Her first breast biopsy was the hardest, and that scar was the longest. Kind of fitting in an odd way, Anna
     felt. She was too young, she had thought at the time, to be dealing with this. She remembered how her sweaty hands had trembled
     as she sat in the sur-geon’s office listening to his litany of cancer statistics and treatment options. The experience had
     left her shaken to the core.
    The second biopsy on the opposite breast had been performed when she turned forty. This time it was done as an outpatient
     procedure, a testament more to the ever-rising cost-consciousness of medical care than to significant advances in technique.
     However, she had had a different surgeon, a slightly better-looking scar, and no cancer. She had gone alone to the hospital,
     had taken no medication except for the local anesthetic during the procedure, and had gone against hospital policy and the
     nurse’s judgment by driving herself home.
    Anna had struggled for more than a decade trapped in that limbo of uncertainty suffered by so many women. Like most in her
     shoes, she courageously endured and faced the ever-present reminder of her mortality utterly alone. She never talked about
     it, rarely thought about it, but all the time she was conscious of the threat. Every once in a while, Anna would find herself
     in a restaurant or a department store, mentally calculating the numbers of people present who were struggling or suffering
     with cancer. That reality infuriated Anna more than it scared her. She told herself it was morbid and unnecessary to entertain
     such thoughts. So she pushed those thoughts out of her head, except for the one morning each month when she slathered her
     hands with soap