Journal Entry - February 8, 2008

Carolyn called me today from Sierra Vista Hospital. I did not know that she has been a patient there since January 31. She sounded fuzzy and far away; her speech was slurred
and halting.

Today it is official. It is not just my worry about her; it is not just “a bad feeling.” Her doctor told her that she is terminally ill with a prognosis of three to six months.

I feel like Butch Cassidy in the last scene of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid:” Sundance had been saying that they would never make it out of that little shack alive, seeing the reality of a buzzillion federales with a buzzillion rifles pointed right at them;
but Butch, ever the optimist, convinces Sundance that they can escape and make it to Bolivia. Together, they run out of the shack with six-guns blazing, and, of course, they die.

I wanted to say to Carolyn, “Look, you just have to hold on! I’m writing this blog to let everyone – regular people like us – know about what they did to us! And after the blog, a book that people can buy – and you can be the editor, or the publisher, or something – but you’ll have a nice office and a desk and a phone that rings! Just hold on for a little longer!”

But I didn’t say those things because I know that we are coming down to the final scene; and, of course, no matter how convincing I am, she’ll still die. Even all my tears won't stop it; she'll still die.

Carolyn is forty-two years old.