Subject: Timberline. (Ed dictated this to me, on June 27, but did not complete the story to his satisfaction --he was too tired at the time. He said he would finish it later, when his brain wasn't so fuzzy... but he didn't. I'm including it in the journal, because these were his words on the subject, on that day. Perhaps you can see where he was going with this.) I guess, in a way, fighting a cancer --any cancer-- is somewhat tantamount to climbing a mountain. The comparison is certainly good enough. On the one hand, the act of climbing is a simple, physical act. Everyone has done it. Putting one foot in front of the other is simple enough. And moving upward is also simple enough. The difficulty comes in, when you realize that there is something climbing behind you, and it's something that you really don't want to catch up with you. There are different levels one encounters when climbing a mountain. I have just gone beyond one distinct level. I'm now beyond the timberline. For those unfamiliar with the timberline: that's where no more trees will grow. I have gone beyond medical science. Last week, back in hospital again, the oncologist and I had a long heart-to-heart, and we agreed that chemotherapy should be discontinued... So, the chill wind is in my face. Here beyond the timberline, I have to face things I never thought I would face. That simple climb has become not so simple, now. Other matters we talked about, in hospital last week, included dark thoughts that have crept into the medical vocabulary of late: one being the term "palliative care" --which is a fancy, fifty-cent way of saying "Oh boy, have we got some great stuff to give you, to make you feel good while you die"; and the other term being "hospice" --another fancy, fifty-cent way of saying "Oh boy, have we got some great stuff to give you, to make you feel good while you die." As you may suspect, neither of these terms is particularly welcome to my mind. My mind is both trying to accept and trying to reject them. It cannot do either, because that is simply not possible --it's beyond my ken. I only know that there are powers, out there, far beyond my mortal fear, that will help me to do anything to add or detract from where I am going at the present time. That's especially true, when it comes to my wife, Susan, who has the power of love within her that no-one can ever take from me. That will always be there to guide me. This isn't a goodbye letter. I am not leaving any of you. I love all of you. Life is good, and I don't want to make you depressed or to send you into a blue funk by writing this. Essentially, I'm letting you know that it has been a rough climb, during the past couple of weeks. I've been through chemotherapy, been through the E.R., been through the hospital, been in and through the hospice critical care unit, and now I'm back at home with hospice care "on call, as needed"... but this isn't the end --there are still numbers in it: it might be six months; it might be six years. Nobody knows. This much I *do* know, though: one of the most powerful forces in the universe is love, and love provides protection from dark shadows. I'll finish this later... Saint