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Brian got the phone call three days before they were supposed to leave. Make-a-Wish had found space at the last minute for them all to go to Puerto Rico for the week and it came just in time.

Justin-well, Justin wasn't doing well and people, friends, were starting to accept that things weren't going the way everyone hoped that they would. It wasn't really a surprise after everything they'd all been through the last three years, but there was still hope.

They never gave up hope.

That's the thing to remember. That's the thing to not forget. They-none of them gave up hope.

Even when the years passed and the prognosis turned from optimistic to guarded and finally to hopeless-even then they didn't give up.

Everyone thought that the chemo would work and everyone hoped that the radiation would help. Maybe the new drugs would be the ones to turn things around. Maybe the things he went through at the National Institute of Health; the experimental stem cell research he'd gone through or the bone marrow transplant would be the magic bullet. Even when Justin himself would tell people, calmly and matter-of-factly, that the new treatments he was undergoing had never worked-well, maybe this would be the time they did.

And then he'd say, also calmly and matter-of-factly, if they didn't help him, maybe they'd help the next kid.

Jennifer had gone to a dinner with the 'family' a couple of days before she knew the trip was approved and that was when her friends saw the change in her demeanor which told them what was really happening. Oh, she was as upbeat as she always was, just as cheerful but there was a difference during the dinner and she didn't even seem like she was trying to hide it. Maybe she felt safe among good friends or maybe she just got tired of the front. It doesn't matter.

That was when she said things like how the paintings they were donating to Sloan Kettering and the Valerie Fund needed to get picked up. Soon. They needed to get them while Justin was still strong enough to help deliver them.

That was when she started talking about what Justin wanted as his legacy.

That was the first time she said-and maybe it was a slip of the tongue, that was when she first said 'When Justin dies' instead of her usual 'if'.

Her friends all caught it, though, and after she had left for the drive home they had stayed in the restaurant, annoying the staff who wanted to close up and leave. They had talked, quietly, about what they'd just heard. There wasn't actually much to say, really. It was inevitable by then and they all knew that, but still.

They didn't know that Justin had been sent home from the National Institute of Health a week before so he could die in peace, with no more treatments or invasions to his body.

The friends thought there would be more time. They thought that Justin might make it to his twentieth birthday or to the fall. Maybe he'd even see another Christmas, but now, well, maybe not.

So they went to Puerto Rico and they even had a good time. Brian was beside Justin pretty much the whole trip and Molly had been allowed to bring a friend, which was nice of the Make-a-Wish people. Justin wasn't quite strong enough to walk along the beach like he'd wanted to, but they'd rented a boat on Saturday and took him out in that. The two of them lay by the pool and talked. Justin slept a lot in a hammock slung between two palm trees. It was warm and pleasant. The resort was beautiful and everyone they met was so wonderfully kind.

Once, when Brian thought Justin was still asleep on the chaise by the low surf, he heard, "When I'm dead, I want you to get over it, all right? Grieve and then move on."

There was no point in playing games or being coy. Brian nodded, picked up Justin's hand and kissed it. "I will."

"Don't bullshit me. Promise."

"I promise."

"And make sure Mom does, too. I've told her, but you know how she is."

"I'll look out for her."

"She doesn't need a fag for that. Tell her to find herself a new man." Brian said he'd do what he could.

It was a good trip and if later their friends learned that the doctors had advised against going, saying Justin might die there, well, he wanted to go and if he died, he'd be where he wanted to be. No one suggested that the trip was the wrong thing to do because it wasn't. It had gotten to the point where all that mattered was that he be happy at the end and so they did whatever would give him pleasure.

They went and he made it home alive and that was a triumph.

They got home on Sunday.

On Monday Justin felt well enough to have a bath, which always made him feel better.

On Tuesday he died.

Brian was holding him, not saying anything, but still telling him it was all right to let go. Finally, Justin did. He opened his eyes, looked around the room, at all his things and Brian beside him, breathed once more and closed his eyes.

That was it.

No fireworks, no drama. He just closed his eyes and was gone.

They lay there, the two of them for a few minutes and then Brian had to move, had to do something. First he called Jennifer. She was quiet when he told her, not surprised, calm. She didn't cry and said she'd be right over. Then he phoned Ben, knowing that Ben would spread the word. Finally he called the paramedics and the funeral home.

The word did go out and the calls and flowers started arriving at the loft within hours.

No one expected the call when it came. Not really. Oh sure, they all knew it was coming, but not right now, not this week, not yet. Maybe in the fall or something, but not now.

Not yet.

Jennifer brought food and wasn't surprised when neither of them cried during their greeting hug, knowing, in a detached way, they were both in shock and would likely be running on adrenalin for the next few days. The bags from Puerto Rico were still on the floor, unopened and still packed.

Wednesday the friends started coming over with more food, more flowers and the planning started; which church, which casket, what hymns, what clothes would Justin wear, where to publish the obituary, who would write it. Brian bought a cemetery plot and was slightly surprised to see that it came with an actual deed and then thought, "Well, of course. It's real estate."

The phone didn't stop ringing.

Out of town relatives were told and flights arranged.

Thursday the 'family' came over in the morning, cleaning every inch of the loft. The last few months Brian had let things go a little. It wasn't that the place was a mess or really dirty, but Brian had abandoned his obsession with neat to concentrate on more important things. They came over and waxed the floors, washed windows, did laundry, cleaned the rugs, polished anything that needed it and stayed the day. Brian and Jenn were freed to deal with the hundreds of details.

No one cried.

They talked and joked like it was any one of their regular get togethers. They laughed and Brian and Jenn joined in when the jokes were funny. It was upbeat and more pleasant than any of them had expected. They had a good time, glad to be doing something useful and constructive, needing to be together, to connect with one another. It was therapeutic for all of them and a good idea.

Towards the end of the day, after a dinner of the food various people had brought over, they looked through albums Jenn had brought and poured through the downloaded pictures of the trip they'd just returned from. The only awkward moment was when, looking over Debbie's shoulder at a snap of Justin laying cradled in his arms on the boat, Brian made an off hand comment about 'that was Saturday'.

Less than a week ago.

Justin looked tired in the picture, painfully thin. His color was ashen, and his hair was course and short from the last treatments, but he was smiling; happy, content; his hands resting on Brian's arms around him.

After the cleaning was done, they all sat around the dining room table, taking pictures, making collages on poster board to display at the viewing. The snapshots brought more memories and they talked till late. Justin as a baby, all blue eyes, as a toddler at a friend's birthday party, at the zoo, in a pool, at cub scouts, in a park, in school, on Christmas morning, growing up in class pictures. Pictures when he was older at St. James, with Daphne, holding an infant Molly, riding his bike. There were pictures of his artwork, of Justin older, passionate in some school debate, laughing in the lunchroom, intent over a sketchbook, marching in the Gay Pride Parade, hugging Brian.

Friday, Saturday, people arrived. Relatives flew in, drove in. They were all met, found rooms for and the family, along with Brian and Jenn, moved and walked and said the things they had to while numb to the reality of what had happened.

The viewing was Sunday. The funeral home was packed and they stood, Brian, Jenn and Molly-Craig couldn't face what had happened and came briefly, leaving quickly-by the open casket, hugging people, speaking and taking up the slack when the friends or co-workers or Justin's student friends were too choked to talk; thanking them for their help, their phone calls, their friendship.

The funeral itself was Monday, Valentine's Day, and the funeral home opened the doors almost an hour early, knowing there would be a large crowd.

The pews held 300. There were another fifty standing in the back. The music was a piano and a flute with vocals from the St. James choir, who had called, asking if they could perform, rather than being asked to show up.

Father Tom spoke eloquently, movingly. Jenn spoke, her voice breaking as she struggled to thank everyone who had helped over the years-the friends who would drop whatever they were doing to donate blood or platelets so Justin might live one more week, the friend who found the college that would allow him to take classes part time, the ones who phoned or e-mailed or dropped over with food or made sure Molly was picked up from school and that she had a place to stay when they were all busy with Justin for a weekend or a week.

Friends from high school and PIFA spoke, telling stories and expressing the loss, speaking about Justin's courage and his generosity and his beauty. Michael talked about his talent and his tenacity-which brought a laugh, even from Brian.

They sang hymns and, after almost three hours, they caravanned to the cemetery in a snowstorm.

Another set of prayers, the coffin eased, carefully, down an icy hill to the open scar in the ground. Flowers were placed on the oak lid. More prayers and the casket was lowered. Debbie watched Jenn as her son's coffin was lowered into the ground; shock heartbreak, stunned disbelief and unfathomable grief all on her face. Jewish friends took turns shoveling freezing, muddy clods onto the lid and they were done.

That was the worst part. That was when people cried and held one another, telling each other how much they loved each other-needing to say it in a cemetery with the snow changing to freezing rain, seeing their breath in the cold air.

More cars back to the immaculate loft. People everywhere, too much food and finally they could talk, relax a little and just be friends together.

They stayed another three hours and, like a lot of funeral parties, it was a good one with the guests enjoying one another and able to let down after the nightmare week. For once, Emmett didn't go over board and kept it simple, knowing there was no need for elaboration. He did his job well.

Then it was over.

People left, having to get home, to catch a flight, to beat rush hour, to start dinner. They hugged Jenn and Brian and plans were made for dinner next week. There would be more invitations. There would be cookouts and game nights and dinners. They would have birthday parties and Christmas parties and they would call often.

They were a family, and that was strengthened by what had happened, by what Ted had called, quoting Dickens, "this first parting among us".

The numbing shock would wear off for Brian and Jennifer and the next few months would be more difficult, in their way, than the previous ones had been. Their homes would be too quiet, their evenings too long, their holidays missing a vital part to make them whole. The pain, never disappearing, would lessen, eventually. It would fade from the razor sharp, white-hot agony to a dull ache and would become manageable because there was no other choice.

Of course, they would never forget-none of the 'family' would. It would be impossible to do so and not what any of them wanted.

And they would move on.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Note: Lisa passed away at home on Tuesday, February 8, 2005. Her mother, an RN who had been her tireless advocate, companion and caretaker, was with her. She was nineteen years old.

Lisa was sick for almost four years from the time of her original diagnosis to her death, three months before her twentieth birthday. She continued her high school work while undergoing treatment at Sloan Kettering, graduating on time and scoring 1578 on her SAT's. Walking across the stage to receive her diploma, a thousand people gave her a standing ovation. Accepted to the college of her choice, she was forced to defer her admission, never going to the out of state school she'd wanted, but instead taking classes part time for two years at a local university near her home and maintaining a 4.0-again while undergoing treatment; often attending class after an early morning radiation or chemo session, annoyed at students who would arrive with their work undone or wearing pajamas.

She was a dancer and figure skater who later joined her high school's ice hockey team and went to the prom wearing a wig, a donated Vera Wang and on the arm of a childhood and lifelong friend who later served as one of her pallbearers. Her hockey stick and figure skates were buried with her.

During the last year, she founded the Kids for Cancer Cure Research Fund that raises money for pediatric cancer research, and volunteered for experimental treatments at the National Institute of Health, knowing that while they were unlikely to help her, might hold promise for other cancer patients. This was her decision and her choice.

In four years, though often in tears of pain and frustration at home or in private, Lisa never once failed to show courage and grace to her friends, grateful for the tremendous support that was shown not just to her, but to her family as well.

She was a gentle, remarkably beautiful and fiercely intelligent young woman who was born dyslexic but became an avid reader through determination and force of will-and hard work. A child who suffered too much but still managed to smile and laugh. Her going leaves an empty space but has brought close friends closer.

We would often speak, the group of old friends who have known one another for decades now, who would take her mother out to dinner when she needed a break, who donated blood and platelets, gave money and endless time and countless phone calls over the last few years about how unfair it all was and how desperately wrong, how easily it could have been one of our kids instead. Knowing that if it were, the generosity would still have flowed back and forth from family to family and friend to friend-and will, should the need arise.

This story was, clearly, my personal way of dealing with the illness and loss of not just Lisa, but also the pain of her family and the good friends who were impacted. I thank everyone who read the many chapters of Remission for sending kind words and who often shared heartbreaking stories of their own experiences with cancer.

Lisa was a kind and gentle soul with reserves of strength that often seemed to me superhuman, as was the courage and tenacity and bottomless well of love and support of her parents and brothers . She did this with the unfailing strength and support of her family, her parents and her two brothers who, as one of her eulogists said, 'stopped being the younger brothers and became the older ones, never leaving the house without seeing if she needed anything and always stopping in her room when they got home to make sure she was all right'; all of whom were trapped in the ultimately heartbreaking ending of a Greek tragedy.

It's easy to toss around words like 'exceptional' or 'inspired', courageous' and extraordinary'. Because it's so easy, the words tend to become cheapened and lose their meaning, but Lisa surmounted the clichés. She endured what she did with grace and compassion, and though in tremendous pain, continued to fight a war she couldn't win years longer than anyone thought possible

And I will miss her.

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