Phil

I first saw Phil in the chemo infusion room last spring. I thought he looked kind of familiar, in that way people do when you live in a small town. He caught my eye, gave me a quick nod, then went back to his book while the drugs hopefully worked their magic. You learn etiquette quickly in the chemo room: some of us are talkers and some of us are loners. Phil, like me in the chemo room anyway, was a loner. I pulled out my own book and settled in for my 4 hour infusion. Then Phil's wife walked in.

I hadn't seen her for awhile but knew who she was immediately. We each have a son the same age and a few years ago, she and I commiserated on the bad teacher our boys were stuck with. We spent a year as more-than-acquaintances-not-quite-friends. I ended up pulling my son out of school just before the end of that tumultuous year; they toughed it out. I hadn't spoken to her in about 7 years but would see her from time to time taking a walk on sunny mornings after the school buses had picked up the kids.

She came over and sat with me for bit. I told her my story. She told me Phil's. He's doing great, she said. Treatment's almost over. Good news! I exclaimed. You must be so relieved. Good-bye, good luck. I didn't see either of them after that day.

Phil died last week.

Some days, it is harder to be grateful than others.