Because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.

I wanted to tell her that I was getting better, because that was supposed to be the narrative of illness: It was a hurdle you jumped over, or a battle you won. Illness is a story told in the past tense.

Meningitis, like the virus that caused it, wasn't a metaphor or a narrative device. It was just a disease.But we are hardwired to look for patterns, to make constellations from the stars. There must be some logic to the narrative, some reason for the misery.

Qualities of a Good Nurse: Go," I said."1. Doesn't pun on your disability," Isaac said."2. Gets blood on the first try," I said."Seriously, that is huge. I mean is this my freaking arm or a dartboard? 3. No condescending voice.""How are you doing, sweetie?" I asked, cloying. "I'm going to stick you with a needle now. There might be a little ouchie.""Is my wittle fuffywump sickywicky?" he answered. "Most of them are good, actually. I just want to get the hell out of this place.

The joy you bring us is so much greater than the sadness we feel about your illness.

Were she better, or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/But in ourselves.

If you were to go, and hopefully someday you will, you would see a lot of paintings of dead people. You'd see Jesus on the cross, and you'd see a dude getting stabbed in the neck, and you'd see people dying at sea and in battle and a parade of martyrs. But Not. One. Single. Cancer. Kid. Nobody biting it from the plague or smallpox or yellow fever or whatever, because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.