We were barely into our junior year of high school when John got sick. At first, he thought it was just some ‘little thing’, but the symptoms seemed to persist. A short time later we would know why. I was sitting in Algebra class when the counselor decided to come by and tell us how John was doing. As his best friend, I wanted to know everything. At sixteen I probably was ill prepared for the brevity of what would be. Mrs. Albright announced that the doctors had discovered cancer. There was the word, but what did it mean?
John and I first met at swimming lessons the summer before kindergarten. I don’t really remember how we became friends, we just did. We were alike in so many ways, so different in others. We weren’t the cool kids or the athletic kids, and at our school they were one and the same. We both liked music better than ball, and when the other kids were playing baseball in P.E., we preferred to swing or just sit and talk. We were aware that we were outside the circle, but I think he cared a lot less about that than I. He never needed to impress people…except for girls. The boy was girl crazy, and he didn’t have a mild case. From early elementary on he would buy the girl who caught his eye a Valentine, write her notes, or at times send me as he hid behind one of the big old oak trees. Remember those innocent days when you were too shy to ask ‘Do you like me?’
I can still recall going to visit him during a brief time he was home from the hospital. My friends and I would go together to support him. Perhaps we were too cowardly to go alone. Our visits were brief, but I remember asking John if he was keeping up with his homework. One might think that I was just making small talk, but to me it was the promise that he was coming back to school—the certainty that he would be all right. Maybe even I didn’t realize that was what I was thinking at the time. When he told me that he hadn’t done any of his schoolwork I became concerned. How could he not? He would be behind. We had to graduate together—on time. We had college ahead, and in case he didn’t know it we were going together. Wherever he went I probably would’ve followed. Looking at him, I knew his heart wasn’t in it—the homework anyway. His eyes were tired, his body weak. It was all his heart could do just to keep him alive. He didn’t have the energy or the time to bother with trivial things. John must’ve known; I just wish he would’ve told me.
The final time that I saw him, and spoke to him was all too brief. We were allowed back in teams of two, so the four friends who had made the drive to the hospital split up. I remember walking in to ICU to meet someone I hardly knew. The only thing I remember from that final time was John asking me to move from in front of a fan they had blowing on him. I just remember feeling out of place. Many saw the signs and knew the fate, but I believed. He would be transferred to a hospital another hour away. It was a long way, but my mom made the drive for me. She knew how important this was. The last time we traveled to the hospital I didn’t even get to see him. His mom told me that she didn’t want me to—she said I wouldn’t recognize him and wanted me to remember him how he was. I said I wanted to anyway but deep down I was afraid. I resented that decision being made for me for a long time. Today, I think I’m thankful for her foresight.
I believed—right up until the end. I believed naively, no selfishly, that God would save him if only for me. He had to—after all, I believed. That was my part, right? Just believe. Those around you are quick to offer hope by saying, ‘All you can do is pray’. So I did. I prayed and believed for a miracle I would never see. I can remember vivid details from the day he died. We were at my Nana and Papa’s house visiting my mom’s family. I was in the kitchen. My mom had gone to the back bedroom to call the hospital and check on John’s condition. She wasn’t gone all that long. When she came around the corner into the dining room, I knew. It was obvious; I could see it in her tear-stained eyes. He hadn’t taken a turn for the worse; he was gone this time. I remember sinking to my knees against the kitchen cabinets, saying and shaking my head ‘no’ on the way down. The kitchen was quiet except for my crying. No one knew what to say—there was nothing to be said. My mom comforted me. It was over in a few short months.
John and I first met at swimming lessons the summer before kindergarten. I don’t really remember how we became friends, we just did. We were alike in so many ways, so different in others. We weren’t the cool kids or the athletic kids, and at our school they were one and the same. We both liked music better than ball, and when the other kids were playing baseball in P.E., we preferred to swing or just sit and talk. We were aware that we were outside the circle, but I think he cared a lot less about that than I. He never needed to impress people…except for girls. The boy was girl crazy, and he didn’t have a mild case. From early elementary on he would buy the girl who caught his eye a Valentine, write her notes, or at times send me as he hid behind one of the big old oak trees. Remember those innocent days when you were too shy to ask ‘Do you like me?’
I can still recall going to visit him during a brief time he was home from the hospital. My friends and I would go together to support him. Perhaps we were too cowardly to go alone. Our visits were brief, but I remember asking John if he was keeping up with his homework. One might think that I was just making small talk, but to me it was the promise that he was coming back to school—the certainty that he would be all right. Maybe even I didn’t realize that was what I was thinking at the time. When he told me that he hadn’t done any of his schoolwork I became concerned. How could he not? He would be behind. We had to graduate together—on time. We had college ahead, and in case he didn’t know it we were going together. Wherever he went I probably would’ve followed. Looking at him, I knew his heart wasn’t in it—the homework anyway. His eyes were tired, his body weak. It was all his heart could do just to keep him alive. He didn’t have the energy or the time to bother with trivial things. John must’ve known; I just wish he would’ve told me.
The final time that I saw him, and spoke to him was all too brief. We were allowed back in teams of two, so the four friends who had made the drive to the hospital split up. I remember walking in to ICU to meet someone I hardly knew. The only thing I remember from that final time was John asking me to move from in front of a fan they had blowing on him. I just remember feeling out of place. Many saw the signs and knew the fate, but I believed. He would be transferred to a hospital another hour away. It was a long way, but my mom made the drive for me. She knew how important this was. The last time we traveled to the hospital I didn’t even get to see him. His mom told me that she didn’t want me to—she said I wouldn’t recognize him and wanted me to remember him how he was. I said I wanted to anyway but deep down I was afraid. I resented that decision being made for me for a long time. Today, I think I’m thankful for her foresight.
I believed—right up until the end. I believed naively, no selfishly, that God would save him if only for me. He had to—after all, I believed. That was my part, right? Just believe. Those around you are quick to offer hope by saying, ‘All you can do is pray’. So I did. I prayed and believed for a miracle I would never see. I can remember vivid details from the day he died. We were at my Nana and Papa’s house visiting my mom’s family. I was in the kitchen. My mom had gone to the back bedroom to call the hospital and check on John’s condition. She wasn’t gone all that long. When she came around the corner into the dining room, I knew. It was obvious; I could see it in her tear-stained eyes. He hadn’t taken a turn for the worse; he was gone this time. I remember sinking to my knees against the kitchen cabinets, saying and shaking my head ‘no’ on the way down. The kitchen was quiet except for my crying. No one knew what to say—there was nothing to be said. My mom comforted me. It was over in a few short months.
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