On orientation day at the hospital, they asked new volunteers which department we would like to work in. I could choose to be a swimming coach, dietary assistant, or an occupational therapy assistant. Knowing full well that I would grow attached to children who would eventually leave, I decided to start off as a dietary assistant, which seemed innocuous enough.

I was trained to assemble meal trays for the children based on their special needs. Most of the menus were easy enough: handi-wipes here, an extra rubber-tipped spoon there, but Nathaniel's was a pain. I dreaded his every time. Every one of his trays needed handi-wipes, a vanilla shake, a rubber-tipped spoon, honey-thickened liquids, and a special portion size – plus he had seven allergies!

One day, as I was preparing Nathaniel's menu, my eyes wandered to his stats. I was surprised to learn that he was my age. I had always assumed that all the patients were young children who were born into their struggles. I asked my supervisor, and she told me that Nathaniel was injured in a car accident at 12. He would probably have to say in the hospital until he was 18. I asked what would happen after that, and she shrugged before heading off to address more pressing issues.

I thought about what I had been doing when I was 12. I was praying for a cell phone, and proud of myself for being allowed to walk around downtown with my friends with no parents. When Nathaniel was 12, he was stuck in the hospital, having tasted the same life I had and knowing that he could never have it again. I wanted to meet him. I asked my supervisor, who told me she would take me to meet all of the kids I created menus for.

“Well, the ones who can talk back to you,” she added.

The following week, I came in ready to meet the kids. My supervisor was not in the office, so I started on a set of menus while I waited for her. Anticipating Nathaniel's complicated menu, I was no longer agitated at the thought of it. I felt a special connection to him now. I was immediately nervous when I couldn't find his sheet. There was no way he could have been released. I found my supervisor in the kitchen and when she saw me, her face fell.

“Where's Nathaniel's card?”

She hesitated. I didn't say anything. We stared at each other for a couple of long seconds.

“Nathaniel passed away yesterday.”