I say nothing, take a drink of my water. Hearing him so matter-of-factly recite the things that can—and probably will—happen to him, has shaken me. Most people deny that such things will occur. Most people, in fact, go through a long period during which they deny their diagnosis altogether. Because it doesn’t belong with them. It doesn’t fit. Because they don’t have time for it. They think, despite all evidence to the contrary, that there’s been a terrible mistake. Later, after they come to accept their diagnosis, they often think nothing else will happen—all those terrible symptoms they heard about were just things that happened to other people; it will be different for them. Because they are Christian. Because they meditate. Because so many people love them. Because they are needed so much. Because they have learned their lesson, and now they will be good. And then: If they do have to die, it will be like this: They will by and large remain themselves. And then one day, they will turn off a ball game and say, “All right. I’m ready to go upstairs and die, now.” But then comes the time when there is no more denying.

“Myra,” Chip says. “I want to tell you something, and I need you to hear me. I need you to hear me. Just last year, a stockbroker I worked with got bad colon cancer. He was a good friend. I saw what he went through with aggressive treatment. I’d rather just … I don’t want to endure all that for the promise of a few months. Well, not even the promise. The remote chance.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” I think of Mike Connelly, a patient I took care of when I was just out of nursing school and working on a medical floor. He had a rare lymphoma. The first day he came in for treatment, he told me, “You know, I served twice in Vietnam. Green Beret, real gung ho. I was never afraid of dying, not once. But I sure am now.” He was sitting on the bed talking to me, and he looked so big and strong, the plastic identification band on his thick wrist so silly. He went through hell trying to save his life, using both conventional and experimental therapy. The last time he left the hospital, he looked like he’d been through a much worse war than Vietnam ever was. And he died three weeks later. Everything he’d tried had done exactly nothing.

“I’d like to stay as normal as I can for as long as I can,” Chip says. “And when things start to go, I’m going to go, too.”

“Well, you can’t exactly program your time of death.”

“Of course you can.”

I look at him, start to say something, then don’t. Now is not the time.