The old man showed up to visit his granddaughter in the pediatric oncology wing of the hospital.

It was late. He took the elevator and got a few weird looks from other passengers since he was carrying a bouquet, a boombox, and wearing a snappy suit.

He walked into his granddaughter’s hospital room. The little girl’s face turned 101 shades of thrilled.

“Grandpa!” said the child in a weakened whisper.

The nurses cleared away the girl’s supper of Jello and creamed potatoes. Her mother dabbed her chin.

He placed the boombox onto a chair. He straightened his coat. He hit the play button. The room began to fill with the silken sounds of the Count Basie Orchestra. Then came the trombone-like voice of Old Blue Eyes. The song was “The Way You Look Tonight.”

“I promised my granddaughter I would teach her to dance,” the old man recalls. “So I wanted to fix that.”

The nurses helped the frail child out of bed. The little girl’s head was bald. Her limbs and face were swollen from the effects of the medications she’d been taking. And she was tired.

“Let me have your hands,” said Granddaddy.

Her little hands fit snugly into his old palms.

“Now stand on my feet,” he said.

Her stocking feet stood atop the old man’s shoes. He stooped to kiss her shiny head.

“That’s good,” he said.

He moved his feet back and forth and told her to follow his lead. They had to pause now and then because they were both prone to laughing fits.

The nurses videoed with phones. A few orderlies watched from the doorway. The girl’s mother sat on the hospital bed, watching.

“This is how Grandpa taught me to dance,” said Mom.

Mom held back a Niagara of tears. Because when Mom was her daughter’s age, the biggest problem in her young life was dealing with poor grades, not disease. Doctors never made sure she understood terms like “survival rate,” “immunotherapy,” and “lymphatic system.”

The little girl counted with a six-beat rhythm aloud as she rode on the old man’s feet.

“Slow, slow, quick, quick…”

“You’re doing great,” said Granddaddy.

The nurses applauded when the song ended. The next tune was “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” The dance steps changed somewhat.

That same morning, the doctor had given the family sobering news. The child’s cancer had spread. It was still too early to tell, but this could likely be the girl’s first and last dance.

Childhood cancer isn’t something you think about until it hits your circle. The first thing they say you learn, in such cases, is that cancer sucks.

The second thing you learn is that pediatric cancer is not nearly as uncommon as you once thought. Each day, 47 kids are diagnosed with cancer in this country, approximately 17,000 each year.

The good news is that 84 percent of kids will be cured. The bad news is: you never know if you’re in that 84 percent.

“You never relax,” the girl’s mother told me privately. “Twenty-four hours per day, you’re afraid. You learn never to trust good news, you learn to NEVER get your hopes up. Prayer is your full-time job.”

The music ended. Granddaddy and granddaughter took a bow.

The girl’s mother says that night seems like a lifetime ago, over a decade, actually. Since then, everything has changed for the family. They have learned to move on. They have become more unified. And they have learned that cancer, no matter what horrific damage it causes, no matter how much it steals, no matter how much of your life it ruins, cannot win. Will not win.

Remember this.

Today, somewhere in the wilds of West Virginia, that little girl is now 21 years old. A few years ago, she wore a long white gown, stood on a parquet floor, and waltzed with her grandfather at her own wedding reception.

And anyway, I just thought you’d like to know.