I’ll be remaining here and won’t be travelling to Greenley, or even to Wilna Creek, for a while, but I will later, during my recovery. For now, for the first time in years, I can report that I have time to read. I asked my mom to bring a couple of books from my apartment, and she showed up on the ward with One Hundred Years of Solitude by Márquez and a biography of Hans Christian Andersen. I admit that I sat in my chair weeping over a badly written biography of the great Dane. At least I learned things about the man, but there have to be better accounts of his life than the one my mother found. As for Márquez, his novel has been buried in my to-read stack for three decades. I hope I have enough time left to finish the tome because I’m enjoying the saga of the Buendía family. I know you gave up on me ever taking the time to read it, but I have become a woman of leisure. Yes, I’ve quit my job. The dean told me she would hold my position in case I change my mind, but I’ve decided to leave permanently. This has not been an easy decision. I have always loved working with students and patients, but now I want to take advantage of opportunities I’ve passed up because I’ve been so busy in the profession. I’m calling this an early retirement.

Next step? Maybe I’ll have to face chemo. I’ll let you know as soon as I have results.

Don’t you love receiving cheery mail like mine? If you think this letter is gloomy, look at it this way: my situation is a thousand times more positive than it appeared to be even a week ago. Dear friend, I am going through the sense of loss and fear that we have recognized many times in so many others. I’d have phoned, but the spoken word fails me for the moment. I’ll keep writing until we can talk face to face. If I can manage, I still plan to travel to Denmark with you for our holidays in late spring. Don’t jump to make reservations yet. I’ll let you know when I’ve broken free of the muddle, which at the moment is a guessing game at best.

In the months that followed, many letters were exchanged between Addie in Wilna Creek and Sybil in Montreal. Sybil continued to communicate only by letter; writing to Addie was therapy. Chemo had been necessary, and the effects were brutal. That was followed by what Sybil labelled her “good life” stage, which lasted two months. But the disease was aggressive. There had been no trip to Denmark. During her own vacation time, Addie travelled to Montreal and stayed with her friend for the three and a half weeks they had planned to be in northern Europe. The treatments Sybil endured did buy her extra time—a little more than half a year. But inevitably, her apartment had to be given up. She had moved back to her hometown of Greenley, back to her childhood room in her mother’s large bungalow. Desperation was setting in. Every weekend on her days off, Addie, though fatigued, found herself driving an hour each way, to and from Greenley. Sometimes, she made extra trips after her day’s work.