My G,

Thank you for the e-mail about the postcard! When I saw that photo, I was immediately filled with the impulse to hop on a plane and jet away, picking you up en route to that little bit of paradise. Can you imagine? We could water ski and snorkel and swim with dolphins during the days, and then at night we could eat the freshest seafood and drink exotic fruity concoctions and make life lists without fear or hesitation 'cause we know, after all of these years, that we can trust each other with our most fervent hopes. And so I bought the postcard and sent it to you, my dear friend, my G-ski.

I don't know if I've told you about this yet, but a beloved friend of mine is dying of cancer. She's been battling it for 8 years (she was diagnosed when she was in her early 20's). It began as ovarian cancer. She went through chemotherapy, went into remission, but had a recurrence. It had mestastasized to her liver. More chemo, then good news, then bad news, then more chemo, then surgery, then good news followed by more good news followed by budding hope. Then things just "didn't feel right," to use her words, and these Not Right feelings were followed by dread and fear and then, finally, doctor appointments, followed by recurrence, only this time the cancer had metastasized to her brain.

The bad thing about the brain when there's cancer in it: you can't use chemo 'cause of the "blood barrier" surrounding the brain itself, so the only treatment options really are either (1) surgery or (2) radiation or (3) a combination of the two. Dannille had two tumors in her brain. One was inoperable, and after 8 years of treatment, two heart attacks, and a recent spate of seizures, her doctors did not recommend surgery; this meant her only remaining option was radiation. So they scheduled her for five treatments; she only could endure three. After the third (or maybe it was the second), she was so sick that she couldn't stop vomiting, which meant that she couldn't lie still for the radiation treatment, and she -- at long last -- decided that it was enough, already. She was done. She was given a year to live, had a conversation with her now 10-year old daughter, and called in all of us, her Army of Women, to help her go through her writings and thoughts and help organize them into a sort of memoir to leave for her family.

So, that's what I've been doing, my friend. I've been reading the stark and honest thoughts and feelings of this beautiful, intelligent, generous woman who is my family and is dying. She reserves the right to change her mind, to resume treatment, but I'm fairly certain this is it for her. It's been a long, hard journey, for her and her daughter, and she's tired. I do everything I can not to argue with her, but at the same time I try to do everything I can to motivate her to keep fighting. It's an odd and precarious balance to maintain all the time, and I often feel unequal to the task. It's a puzzle worth working, though.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I love you, I'm proud of you and what you're doing, and I wish you happy and well. Especially over the last couple of years, and even more so in recent months, you have been on my mind and I miss you. It is not looking good for me to come see you for your 40th birthday, but I still have hopes for 2010. In the meantime, peace, my friend.