There is a special kind of hurt we have when our friends are ill, especially when they're probably more deeply ill than they want you to know. You ask, and they assure you that "it's no big deal," even when words like "chemo" are involved. But there is that little waver in the voice that wasn't quite suppressed, and you try to believe you didn't hear.

Or there is the sudden assertion that you have been one of their special friends. A statement that by its timing brings you both a kind of humble warmth and a slight, sickly fear that emotional accounts are being closed, that they are making sure that you "will always know."

When one has been involved in medical work, one becomes all too aware of the transitory nature of health, youth and life itself. This awareness can become an all too unwelcome sensitivity.

In the last few days two friends of long standing have assured me that "it's no big deal," and let me know that I am their good friend. Perhaps in both cases years of healthy life lie before these two good people and the fears of this week will lie dormant for a distant future.

Now I'm having some of that special hurt, and I'm struck by the honor it is to bear it for people that you love.