The Most Painful Things

Three

On the drive over, I try to think of what to say. I'm generally not a very comforting person, but I know that I am going to have to do something helpful in this situation. I have never dealt with anything like this, so I don't even know where to start.

But when I arrive at John's house, I am thankful to see that I won't have to do anything like that.

Mrs. Marlow opens the door for me; I practically lived there all through middle school, so I have a key to their house, but I knock, not wanting to interrupt a family moment. She isn't crying anymore, but her eyes are red and puffy. She smiles when she sees it's me and envelops me in a bone-crushing hug.

"Thank you so much for coming, dear," she whispers. "John really needs you right now. Just don't mention. . . it. . ." Her voice breaks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She lets me go. "He's in the living room."

I walk through the Marlows' small kitchen. John is slouched on the couch, legs sprawled out in front of him, glaring at the television. He's watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, one of our favorite movies. "John?" I say quietly.

He turns around to see who it is. When his eyes meet mine, I can see his control break. He bursts into tears. My heart in my throat, I crawl over the couch and pull him into a hug. He sobs into my shoulder.

"Aiden, I can't do this. I can't die. . ." He chokes out.

"Shhh. . . Everything will be okay," I whisper, unsure of what to say. I'm not good with words.

John, who knows this about me by now, doesn't even bother to point out the fact that, no, nothing is going to be okay.

Once his tears subside, he tries to sit up. I can tell he's weak, hopefully more from his crying than from his DMD. I casually help him up, acting like I'm just adjusting my position. If John notices this, he doesn't say anything.

"How about we just watch some Harry Potter tomorrow?" I say, trying to keep everything light. John looks down.

"I wanted to go to the game," he says softly.

Not wanting to upset him, I don't point out that this will probably make him feel worse rather than better, but I nod. "Okay. That sounds great."

We watch the rest of the movie in silence, broken only by the occasional sniff from John. Thankfully, he doesn't notice the tears streaming silently down my cheeks. At one quieter moment in the movie, we can hear Mrs. Marlow sobbing upstairs. I hastily turn up the volume.

Just before the movie ends, John looks over at me, before I have a chance to get myself together. He sits up as quick as he can. "No, don't cry. You don't need to cry over me," he says, hugging me. "I'm going to be great. You said so yourself."

Holding in comments about how everything is falling apart, I nod, and hug him back.

"Let's go get ice cream," John says, reaching for his crutches.

I jump up and move to pick them up, but he says "I'm going to get them first!" He practically dives off the couch, something that I know can't be easy for him.

I smile. That's John for you. He's dying, and after only a little bit of crying, he still wants to go get ice cream, and wants to be the beat me to do little things. He's still a kid at heart. Even Duchenne muscular dystrophy can't take that away.