Jenna

During my second round of liver failure, I was sent home briefly — but I wasn't getting better, and the next day I was readmitted. That's when I noticed a familiar face in the hallway: a neighbor from our area. Her niece, Jenna, was on the same floor, being treated for cancer.

Jenna and I ended up sharing a room, and it was a relief to have someone my own age around. Our families already knew each other a little, so visitors would drift between our bedsides, and the room was never too quiet. Our dads, as it turned out, were both spectacular snorers — a nightly performance neither of us asked for — and we'd find ourselves awake in the dark, whispering and laughing after being jolted out of sleep by the noise.

What made Jenna special was something I hadn't found in a friend before: she understood. She knew what it meant to have a significant portion of your childhood swallowed by illness, by hospital stays, by the particular tedium and fear of being sick for a long time. We didn't talk about it much — we didn't need to. Just knowing the other person got it was enough. We also discovered we shared the same birthday, and made plans for a joint celebration later that year.

Eventually Jenna was moved to a different floor, and not long after, I was discharged. She followed soon after, and we had a sleepover — I remember a playground, I remember her sister being there, but the memories are soft at the edges, the way childhood memories often are. That turned out to be the last time I saw her.

I went to summer camp that year. When I came home, my mother sat me down and told me Jenna had died.

We were 8 years old.