I don’t want to be known as the woman whose son died. I don’t want to have to stutter over the answer to the question, “How many children do you have?” I DON’T WANT MY SON TO BE SICK. When well-meaning people ask me, “How is Bobby doing?” I am just so tired to trying to sound upbeat. “Well, chemo is going okay; less nausea, blah blah blah.” I don’t know what to say because I think people want reassurance that life really is predictable. People get sick and people get well. Twenty-nine year old men don’t die.