No crying. That was the stipulation. A few years ago, I visited the pediatric oncology wing at the hospital and I promised not to cry. Namely, because in a place like this crying doesn’t help anyone. So I kept a stiff upper lip.

I walked to the nurse’s desk. Checked in. They took me to the kid’s room. He was lying on a hospital bed, dressed in Christmas PJs. He wore a Santa hat over his bald head. He was going to be having surgery today.

“Are you Sean?” said the kid.

“I’ve been called worse,” I said.

“You’re my favorite writer.”

“You need to raise your standards.”

“My mom and I read your stories. First thing in the mornings, when she’s drinking coffee.”

“What are you usually drinking?” I asked.

“Gatorade.”

I sat beside his bed. The boy had a tube running up his nostrils. He asked if I wanted to play video games. I’m not a video game guy. I didn’t grow up with video games. When I was a kid, a boy in our county had the game “Pong,” and it was broke.

So I watched the boy play his video game. He was getting into it. Explosions on the screen. Lots of gunfire. It was a loud game.

Finally, he handed me the controller. “You try.”

“I’m not a game player.”

“I can show you.”

So he showed me. He tried to teach an uncoordinated middle-aged guy the ins and outs. The child seemed to take pleasure in how truly awful I was.

Finally, I handed him the controller and said, “I think it’s best if I just watch.”

So that’s what happened. For almost an hour I sat there and watched him play. Eventually, we were interrupted when a few nurses came in and informed me that he was about to be prepped for surgery.

His mother and I were asked to leave the room.

His mother was still holding his wireless video game controller. She was sniffing her nose, trying to hide it. She said this operation was supposed to relieve pressure from his brain, somehow.

When it was time to leave, I walked down to the parking lot and sat in my truck for a long time. I could not find the energy to even start my truck. I could not find the wherewithal to even move.

In my time as a columnist, I’ve written about a lot of kids with terminal illness. I’ve met many of them. You always feel stupid when you meet them. You are always confronted with what a pathetic gesture every gesture seems like, considering that this child might die.

Moreover, you’re never prepared to see their little bodies withering away. You’re not ready for a kid to talk to you nonchalantly about his or her own end. You’re not braced for it.

Eventually, I fired up my engine and I drove home. I thought about that boy every day thereafter. I prayed for him at every meal. And this morning, when his mother texted me to say that her son was officially cancer free, I don’t mind telling you that I finally broke my promise.