I can't cry, no, I couldn't cry. I know it sounds weird, maybe it is, but its true. Why? I'm not sure but I think its got something to do with boarding school, you know how it is in England: 'Stiff upper lip' and all that.

Well I can cry now.

I dunno how I did it, but I know I did, and my friends saw it. I got phone calls a few days later with friends asking "So, are you happy that you cried?". Weird? What's weirder is that I'm not happy, of course I'm not or why did I cry?

Why indeed. Phew, where do I start? I'll have to try and explain me before I can even begin to explain why.

I'm Jason, I'm a student and I'm 19. My dad is a true Englishman (boarding school, nanny and coat of arms) while my mum is french-canadian (kind of weird ex-teacher with a disadvantaged youth). That's me and my family in summary. Just the three of us which was ok. But I still wish I'd had brothers and sisters.

The closest I got were my cousins Sophie and Kitty. Their mother and my mother are sisters, my mum being the older sister. During our youth they lived in Montreal, Canada and I lived in The Hague, Holland and then here, in England.

My mum missed her mother and her sister so we went to Canada a lot and I got to spend a lot of time with my cousins. We hung out and did kids stuff like trick or treating. I was the little one but I didn't care because I had these cool buddies and they were girls. My friends will now point out that I still don't figure much about girls and women, but that's boarding school for you...

Ok, well right now I'm really stuck for words, I'm feeling pretty shit and I dunno where to head.

Did I mention that Kitty died?

That was a hard sentence to write, not structurally, but in an insidey way - like my guts were connected to each word. So when you read this let's hope my guts stay intact. But that isn't precisely why I cried, oh no, things are much more complicated than that...

My paternal grandmother died in 1991 while I was at camp in Canada. I got back and everyone was pretty cheerful. Then my dad became all serious and sort of directed me into a bedroom. 'Uh-oh what have I done?' I thought. You know how kids are.

"Jason, you may find this hard to understand," he said softly as he cleared his throat in the way only he can, "Granny Boo is dead."

Now I know Granny Boo is a dumb name for a Grandmother but she always said 'Boo!' to me, so it stuck. Thing is, that's all I can think of now, the news affects me as little now as it did then. She was old, died peacefully in her sleep and I was 6,000 miles away. I feel kind of guilty because I'm sure my dad was hurting, but I just didn't respond.

My dad hadn't been there when the call came, Kitty had taken it. Some stern English nurse had asked her to take a message. 'Mr.Kitcat's mother has died in her sleep and will be kept in cold storage until he returns.'

She freaked. She was only a teenager - how the hell do you tell your uncle his mum's dead? And she was gonna be kept in the freezer? Yuk.

Weird thing was, Granny Boo knew she was going. One of the last times I saw her in that hot little room of hers in the nursing home she began to ramble.

"Jason, wouldn't it be lovely to just drift away? You know, like in a hot air balloon into the clouds..."

Well I was scared by it all, my dad seemed a little freaked too. She didn't want to carry on. But I wasn't very freaked - just a bit concerned - not nearly enough for a close relative.

We went back to England and she was cremated in a horribly tacky affair with a plastic urn. The awfulness of the ceremony just shielded me from the awful and eventually unavoidable truth that is death. That cold, all-encompassing and certain destiny that we all share. Maybe I caught a flickering glance of the darkness, but it was too quick for me to grasp its nature. Even if I had seen it longer I could never truly grasp it, no human can, not until this horrible destiny is fulfilled.

So life carried on for me at prep school. I was in my last year there, and funnily enough, I had girls in my class for the first and last time in my 14 year school career. That was a fun year!

I remember a friend, Laura, thinking boners were called that because blokes had bones down there. Could we break those bones, she pondered. Shame I didn't learn as much as she did about the opposite sex.

Well by this time Kitty was already ill. That summer when my granny died we'd both gone to camp together. She was now old enough to work there, but I was still a camper. She used to drop in and say 'hi' occasionally, which was nice. She went on a canoe trip and one day sprained a muscle while carrying this wooden box called the Wannigan. If you know this box, you'll love and hate it. Its carried only by a leather strap across the forehead, indian style, and holds the day's food and all the cooking equipment. Its supposed to be racoon proof, but these days they're getting pretty cunning.

Anyway the day after she sprained her leg, she woke up with a really swollen leg. The trip leader, a guy we all call Goose, freaked privately. But he acted calm, got her to a ranger's post and flew her out to hospital. The hospital gave her crutches, doctors said it was a strain and she was packed off home.

It wasn't until a family friend and doctor checked her out that Goose's private freak-out was confirmed. The thing was the sprain wasn't getting any better, and sprains usually do.

The sprain had let a tumour out. A black, ugly, evil tumour. There had been a strain but some bastard cancer had been lurking there, waiting to get out.

I went to camp several times after this whole thing and saw Goose everytime. He used to go round saying "Hey, guys, you know that's Kitty's cousin?" which always got me a sympathetic look, but really I was too sensitive to take it the right way. It was one of those summers that he told me about his freak-out.

"I had cancer once, but I beat it," He told me calmly to my complete surprise. "I just knew when I woke up and saw her leg that it was cancer. But I couldn't say, not then, it would completely freak everyone."

It fucking freaked me.

Thing was, Kitty was just so cool. She was the 'typical' North American teen. She had loads of friends, especially boyfriends. She was pretty, sporty and clever. She liked cool bands like Aerosmith (well they were then) and generally had a good time. She had a furious temper but it seemed most of her friends learnt how to steer well clear of it.

This ugly cancer wasn't your plain ordinary killer, though. Oh no, just to make matters that little bit worse it was extremely rare. Kitty was only about the seventh case in the world. And this variant had a protein around its tumours that prevent chemotherapy from being effective. But what the hell, they gave it to her anyway, just to run her down. Her hair fell out, she became thin, pale and slightly puffy. One time they even overdosed her, making her blow up like a balloon. So her dad learnt how to work those medical pumps they use, just in case some dumb nurse did it again.

Well, as predicted, the chemotherapy had no positive effect, so they moved onto radiotherapy. Now this worked a bit, but by this time there were multiple tumours. They had also tried some experimental therapy to remove the protein layer, with little success. So the researchers got to try again with someone else, Kitty didn't get that second chance.

Kitty hated needles, like me. So they implanted this plug into her chest so that they didn't need to use needles all the time. Small comfort.

She got so weak they had to visit her with masks so she didn't catch any bugs. My mum was out in Canada helping the family, so me and my dad subsisted off microwave meals. Aerosmith even visited her bedside and she got autographs.

They let her eat whatever she wanted, they'd drive to the other side of the city for it. Small comfort.

Her last Christmas was when my denial kicked into full swing. Last time I'd seen her she'd been ok. There seemed to be hope. Now she was out of hospital for a few days over Christmas and then straight back in. And even then it was special, reluctant, concession by the doctors.

She wore a wig, had no eyelashes and really scared the shit out of me. She would scream and cry, not wanting to die. Everyone assured her that she wouldn't while in their eyes you could see their sorrow as they slowly came to terms with the terrible fact that she was going to.

Would it have been better to tell her that her time was up? Would things have been easier for her? I don't know, but I certainly wouldn't have the guts to tell an 18 year old girl that, too bad, your never going to have kids, have a husband or have all those things you've wished for - like a life.

Maybe she knew it already, and so our denials were one of the most insulting and stupid things we did for her. Who knows?

Obviously my reaction was to deny to myself and out loud to anyone willing to listen, that she was going to die. Naturally everyone nodded their heads in a sympathetic, knowing way.

She got a bright yellow VW beetle for Christmas. It was the car of her dreams, it was the last beacon of hope - brightly pointing the way to a better future when she could drive the car.

She never drove the car. Sometimes Sophie and I drive in the car, around the streets of Montreal. Sophie struggles with the first gear, and I just think 'Kitty should be stuck on that'.

My mum came back, needing a break from living out of a suitcase. The night after she got back we got into a discussion of 'What happens if she dies?' I stormed out declaring that she wasn't going to die. She wasn't going to die. No, you don't understand, she wasn't going to die.

18 year old girls aren't supposed to die.

Not the girls you love so dearly and who you look up to for an example. Its supposed to be next door. Erm, God, I said next door.

Well, as things would have it, the next evening Sophie phoned up sobbing. Kitty was dying. I dismissed it as a false-alarm, which is why my mother was gone and on a plane back to Canada before I even noticed.

She took a taxi right to the hospital and raced up to Kitty's room. And there she was, lying naked, in an oxygen tent. Her body bloated by a multitude of tumours. She opened her eyes one last time, slowly looked at each person there and then died.

Now this was real, my denial seemed childish and ridiculous. What a fool I was. In a really weird, twisted and macabre way I wish I'd been there. Maybe then I would have understood. Maybe.

The next day I left England with my father, and headed to Montreal. On the six hour flight I tried to steel myself. How was I supposed to act, what was I supposed to do? I can't remember making any conclusions, I can only remember what I did.

We arrived the day of the funeral. So I literally got off the plane and into my suit. And this time I was slightly curious and very muted around the obviously disturbed members of the family. My mind was in overdrive - 'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, what do I do?'

I remember all of us getting into these dark limos which I thought were rather cool. I'd never been to a 'proper' funeral. Our destination was most definitely the worst place on earth. It was a funeral parlour, where they try to mix sorrow, religion and profit.

We were herded into the largest parlour at the end. My grandfather had lain here, but now Kitty lay there. And I was so completely unprepared for this: The coffin was open. There was this, bloated, Kitty. She was made up, with her wig and her favourite teddy and in some nice clothes. It looked so wrong. People were going up to the coffin to pray, and then, worse of all, kiss her cold flesh. There was no way I could manage that, but my mum was insisting. NO WAY, was I kissing that. So I walked up and looked at her and then walked off.

I can't remember what my religious beliefs were then, but now they're non-existent, so I'll say I didn't pray. There were two sections to the parlour, and as more family arrived I retreated to the second half, furthest from the coffin. Everyone in the other bit was praying or reflecting or whatever, but I just thought 'Can't we go?' it was completely morbid and sick sitting in a room with a dead person.

I began to pace, and pace, and pace. I didn't stop, my mind racing with my foot steps. I should have done something, somehow. Maybe I should do something now, I should find a cure. I'm good at science - I owe it to her to try. I owe it to everyone for my stupidity. My mind span the spiral, trying and failing to rationalise the whole thing. Eventually my dad came to stop me as I was driving everyone else mad. Pacing had seemed the appropriate action, but obviously not.

With another failure under my belt, I sat.

Somehow, at sometime, Sophie appeared and just hugged me forever. I don't think I've ever cried so much in all my life. (This was before boarding school and so crying was still possible.) She gave me a bracelet Kitty used to wear and I wore it lovingly until it began to wear away. I felt better after that, and following a five year hiatus at boarding school, have resumed being a very huggy person. Hugs just feel too good and healthy, I'm addicted.

Finally, after having spent far too long in a room with a painfully empty husk, we moved onto the funeral. This was in a huge church, but it just wasn't big enough. The place was flooded with people. I couldn't take it all in. Her boyfriend was sauntering on the steps, among the flowing crowds, obviously shocked and choked, with nobody to share it with.

Inside I couldn't believe the throng as we proceeded behind the coffin to the front of the church.

The actual funeral is a complete blur, but I remember one of her friends had edited Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway to Heaven' so that just the acoustic/flute bit played for a while. It was her favourite song and seemed painfully appropriate. If there's one song I can play well on my guitar, its that one.

After the funeral we moved onto the graveyard where just a small group of us saw the coffin for the last time, resting in a small chapel, waiting to be industrially relocated and buried. Only then did her father break down into tears. For some reason that really hit me as he'd seemed so calm. I must sound so cold and calculating, but I was trying to figure it all out, in whatever way I could.

The day ended with us returning to the family home for the after-funeral party. Its probably got some better name but that's all it is, a morbid party. I ended up handing out hot canapes and generally joking with the guests. Even Kitty's mom seemed slightly cheerful, maybe getting it all over was a relief. But for me, this was just the beginning...

The next day I flew back to England. I'd left days earlier having been involved in a big school play as the stage manager. I returned demoted to only part of the stage crew. At the time it seemed to matter more than any funeral. How stupid I've been.

Well life sort of carried on normally. Usual holiday jaunts were avoided by us so as to try and forget the past. We've never celebrated Christmas again in the place where Kitty celebrated her last. We go somewhere different every year now. Its easier that way.

In autumn 1993 my grandmother (and so Kitty's too) died of cancer. I had to say prayers in French to a whole church, which was pretty challenging. French is my first language, but I don't get much practice. It affected me a little, I guess, but she was also old and had lived a full and happy life. I was still a little scared by it all, especially when we returned to that same funeral parlour to see her open coffin. What is it with this open coffin thing? It just freaks me completely. Its too real and close up. You have to deal with the obvious reality of the death, and its callous, dark logic.

By this time I was in the boarding school. It wasn't all that bad, to be honest, but it does affect you. I was sensitive about Kitty, very sensitive. I just locked it up and thought that would deal with it. My last name didn't help either. Its Kitcat and when people saw Kitty's bracelet on me they thought it was my nickname, so they called me Kitty. I couldn't hack that. Fortunately Damian, my buddy, would tell them diplomatically before I just went AWOL. I was too sore to actually explain myself.

According to the file, it was April 1994 that I managed to finally get something out about it. I'd had an English assignment to write an excerpt from my autobiography. One of those dumb things where everyone writes about their holiday. I wrote it quietly but quickly. Its language is too flowery for my liking now, and its very factual. I still couldn't handle all the emotions.

Can I now?

Ok, there's one good emotional bit in it, but generally I don't like it now.

"I had openly denied her mortality, but we had all known that she would die. It was fate’s cruel and callous decision. Dead was a word of little meaning to me until then. Even after my paternal grandmother’s death it didn’t strike me. She had just gone away as old people tend to. I had caught but a fleeting view of one facet of death. The full gravity of death is still biting. Death is so final that humanity can’t comprehend it and refuses to truly try to comprehend its finality. It results in the complete end of a unique entity, a link in the family chain broken, taking time to repair itself. Death, when someone is gone so suddenly you want to turn round and ask them what it was like. It's strange but tragedies are never meant to happen to your family, only the people next door. Well, it happened."

I was scared out of my brains about handing it in because then my teacher would see it and might understand me a little better - which at that time I found to be intensely scary and inappropriate - one doesn't reveal one's inner feelings. (Boarding school, remember?)

Well I handed it in, and my parents liked it so much they faxed it to Kitty's parents - that was it - I didn't think I would survive looking at them again. How could I even pretend to understand what had happened? I would just insult them.

Actually, no. I survived, they liked it. Phew. But here comes the big one...

My teacher, who I respected more than any other, absolutely loved it. I got the top mark, much to everyone's chagrin; until they heard it.

I walked into English class one day and my teacher asked me, very seriously, if it was ok for him to read out my essay. I just did not think and said yes.

He's got a Phd in English from Oxford so when he reads, you know about it. Everyone was rooted to their seats. But I was being battered, I wanted to cry SO MUCH, but I just couldn't. I couldn't show it in front of everyone. I couldn't look at anybody, especially as my teacher shed a tear as he finished reading and then gave me the most sympathetic look in the history of teaching. I was just focussed on keeping it all in, raising those barriers higher and higher. Only to make it harder for me to break free when I finally wanted to.

That was one subdued bunch of boys as we left the class, and they were all very nice to me for about a day. Then they forgot and life at boarding school carried on. I'd say that the essay was stage one in my coping with Kitty. But the whole thing in the class probably didn't help me in my ability to cry.

Anyhow my life carried on, and so did Sophie's. I don't know how much this all affected Sophie, I mean obviously it was a lot, but we've never really talked about it. Shame.

I finished boarding school having had a pretty great last two years. Then I went straight into University and that's when I really started learning. There are girls living with me, and hardly anybody went to the artificial and isolated worlds of boarding school. My mind has opened up to so much and I've made some of the best friends of my life in the space of six months.

With their help I'm finally opening up emotionally. I'm pulling down all those walls and barriers that I so carefully put up to protect me. I hug and I can cry. I can talk about me and how I feel. They haven't done it all intentionally, its their acceptance of who I am and the feeling that I belong that have made me comfortable enough to do this.

I even managed to talk about Kitty, properly, to one friend. I honestly don't think she understood what I was going on about, but maybe this will help. But that doesn't matter, I feel better having talked about it. But the name Kitty can still be a no-go area for me without serious emotional barriers up.

So how did I manage the crying thing?

Another good friend from university had a birthday party and invited us all down to meet up and see his old school friends and his sister. Well he'd claimed I was going to be set up with some chick, but by the time I got there everyone else was tired from heavy previous nights and I was ready for some fun. So to assuage myself I hit the beers and finally the vodka. I met loads of great people and ended up chatting to my friend's ex-girlfriend. Then it happened...

Nobody knows how or why but I began rambling about Kitty and just burst into sobs and tears. Well I dunno what everyone thought, but I must have looked pretty dumb. I was gently manoeuvred upstairs where I got a reassuring hug from friends while trying to rationalise Kitty's loss. Its only coming out now. Its been six years, yet it still feels in an eery way like yesterday. I've held it locked up for so long that just hasn't aged with me. Now I'm ready to deal with it, I think.

Great way to ruin a party, don't try it a home, folks. The thing was, my friend didn't now about Kitty and when I began sobbing about her he got freaked, or so his girlfriend says. Sorry.

But how do you rationalise seeing someone you love so much slowly dying and yet being completely and utterly incapable of doing anything? You don't. Its just not possible. You can't rationalise it. Its trying to that hurts, you've (I've) got to accept it.

So I cried. I felt a little better and then went back down to the party.

And I cried a little writing this. This is an intensely selfish piece, I'm sorry.

That's how I became able to cry - by being who I am and accepting that sometimes you just can't change things. And I got lucky, I founds some amazing friends who, for some reason, like me and let me hang out with them. Thanks.

That's how I cope. How do you?