A few minutes away from Chip’s house, I pull into the parking lot of a White Hen. Hungry. Well, nervous.

I buy a package of mini–rice cakes and come out to the car to eat them, then don’t eat them. I look into the mirror, freshen my lipstick, think of the questions I’ll need to ask Chip about his symptoms. Any headaches? Any … changes in mentation? Any mouth sores from the chemo? Any diarrhea? “I used to lie on my bed after school every afternoon and imagine kissing you, Chip; have you had any loose stools?”

I take out the little bottle of mouthwash I keep in my glove compartment, rinse, spit discreetly into the parking lot. “How about pain, Chip, how are you controlling that? Want me to call you Zipper Head, like this other patient of mine who had brain surgery? He lived six months, Chip. Think you can make it that long? Can I make dinner for you? You can come to my house, I’ll make anything you want—if the food is on the earth, I’ll get it for you. You could take a bath afterward, I have a little jacuzzi. I can give you a massage; I’m supposed to, now.”

I imagine introducing myself to his parents. I feel sorry for them already. I always feel sorriest for parents whose children are dying. It’s not the natural way, of course. The parents always take me aside to say that they should be the ones to go first. As though I could do something about it. As though I could say, “Oh, right! Okay, then, so … which of you will be taking the disease instead?”

Oftentimes, the parents object to the season. “He shouldn’t be dying in spring, he loves spring.” “She shouldn’t die before Christmas, if we could just have one more Christmas.” Again, as though an adjustment could be made. Oh, their hearts are broken, that’s all, and they try to find one thing they can fix. And all you can do is go through your nursing care plan, share techniques with them: “Encourage the patient to share thoughts and feelings.” “Encourage use of stress mangagement skills: relaxation techniques, visualization, guided imagery, biofeedback, laughter, music, therapeutic touch.” This is good advice, of course. It is appropriate. It is what you can do. But you tell the parents these things, and you imagine that as they nod and think of how they might comply, their chests are full of the loudest roaring. Just this roaring. And in your own chest? A dull weight. A wish that you could wave a wand, just once.

I wonder if I should tell the parents that I went to high school with Chip. I decide not to. It would only make them feel bad. Pointing out the similarites between us would only highlight the terrible differences.

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