In the movies, it’s always enormously happy people who die from cancer: people with adoring spouses or partners, with darling children whom they love dearly, with jobs they must reluctantly step away from and houses so cozy they practically whisper, “Please don’t go.” That’s not necessarily a flaw—maybe it’s more of a virtue, a way of reminding those of us who don’t have all those things (who among us really has it all, all the time?) that even the imperfection of our lives is worth hanging onto.