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I can't remember a day in my life that was harder than today, unless it was yesterday. Everything in me resists causing others pain or discomfort. One of my life's lessons is learning to bear the suffering of others, but to be the agent of pain feels unendurable. Yet, here I am enduring it. Yesterday's news was not what we had hoped it would be. Like a weed popping up in other spots in the garden, the cancer is spreading. The good news is that I will have time, perhaps a year, perhaps more, hopefully not less, in which, with consciousness, to soak up all the blessings of my beloved relationships, the comforts of the music I love, the numinosity of nature. I plan to continue my life as it is, continuing to watch it unfold as it will, but making choices in consideration of an ending that may come sooner than I had planned.

Much more research must be done before treatment of lung cancer can be as effective as that of some other cancers, but I am grateful for the huge gains in pain management. As symptoms develop, chemotherapy is an option to reduce pain by shrinking tumors, but it's efficacy in prolonging life is limited. Except for the pain of having to be the bearer of these tidings, I am feeling so good that there is a screen of denial protecting me from what I know in my mind is an excruciating reality. I can see through the screen, but what I see is hazy, muted. My benevolent inner guide is holding me in the moment, a difficult moment though it is... I think I will go take a walk before continuing.

Back now, with the residue of my thoughts while walking still on my mind. I was thinking about how well-timed our road trip was, including, as it did, so many people dear to me, so much natural beauty, and the satisfaction of feeling a part of it all. I left you (a blog or two ago) driving across the Canadian prairies, listening to country music. After a long day's drive, delayed at the border by the rather sour border patrol (no fooling around since 9/11), crossing the more populated, seemingly less expansive North Dakota prairie lands, we came into northern Minnesota, to Grand Rapids, and finally to our destination, Twin Lakes. The community there of family and friends epitomize the warmth, inclusiveness, and hospitality I associate with life in Minnesota. It crossed my mind that this might be the last time I would visit the cabin, hear the soulful, lonely cry of the loon, swim in the fresh, clear water of the lake (don't have the strength to swim across anymore), rest in the gracious acceptance of that family – my family. In China, when a girl marries, she leaves her people to become a part of her husband's family. Often she feels isolated, unaccepted, bereft. Young, insecure, spoiled, and prideful, without having to give up my own, I married into Van's family, one of the gifts of my charmed life. Reading the cabin log book, I realized how many times over the years we had been to Twin Lakes and recovered memories spanning the whole 57 years of our marriage. Memories of the tough times were there, too, but mellowed and sweetened by the passage of time.

Next, we drove south with daughter Elizabeth (Betsey), and grandchildren Joe (15) and Jesse (12) to Faribault. Their home sits in the beautiful rolling farmland characteristic of southern Minnesota. A gift of Betsey's husband, Bill, was his love of the land. He devoted some of their land to the restoration of the prairie, put in 1200 plants to create habitat, and cut a path through the woodland for me to walk. Betsey has a huge garden, from which she provides food, preserved, frozen, canned for the winter. She is a true Minnesotan! The weather in the north had been spectacularly beautiful, typical of the best in my memory. The weather in the south was too hot to do anything outside – Van didn't even go out to play golf. The day we left, the heat lifted, reminding me of how lovely it can be, especially in the fresh, clean air of the country.

The last chapter is our drive home, a route we have taken many times - through South Dakota , sharing the road with lots of Harley motorcycles returning from the famous rally in Sturgis; into Montana, where we visited Steve, Hilary, and baby Chase, who hadn't been able to join us at the lake; down to Yellowstone, with suggestions from Hilary, a bearologist, who lived there while studying the resident grizzlys. She said we'd be likely to see more animals on the east side instead of taking the more familiar road on the west. Very soon, we spotted a magnificent elk, further on a pronghorned elk, herds of bison grazing in the grasses and sporting in the river, and finally, a bear! The drive out of Yellowstone was a little tedious, but rewarded by the Grand Tetons, rising suddenly out of the plains.

Forgoing the expense of staying in Jackson, we went on to Twin Falls, Idaho, and the next day, into Nevada. On one of our former drives through Nevada, we had discovered a pottery studio and workshop in the tiny (only 14 year-round residents), remote town of Tuscarora. We were surprised to find that the artist was a Stanford graduate, whose family had relocated to Tuscarora and established the workshop in this little artist's colony. We decided to see if the shop was still there, which indeed it was,and, to our delight, so was the artist, Ben Parks. After buying another souvenir to match the one we had purchased before, Van was willing to continue on the remote, unimproved road, leading eventually back to the highway. The last time we had taken this road, we did not have an appropriate vehicle, which made Van very nervous. It is not in my stubborn, determined nature to question the wisdom of such a venture, which is why being married to Van is another example of my good fortune - as is, that time,making it safely back to the highway! This time, however, we had our all-wheel drive new car, the only risk being that we would be covered with dust. Along the way is the reward for the effort – a beautiful reservoir, solitary in the midst of the astonishing silence of this high desert. Only walking in the snow through Betsey's property, or maybe above the treeline in the Sierra, have I experienced such quiet. We ate our picnic lunch without talking, taking it all in. Back to the highway, on to Reno, down, down to the flats of Sacramento, stopping to see son Peter in Vallejo, across the Bay Bridge, down #280, and home.

Many years ago, in her 80's, musing about her life, Van's mother said, “Oh, but I have my memories...” As I approach 80, I'm beginning to understand what she meant. Memories are the riches of the old, sustenance for the soul. Our trip awakened old memories and created new ones. I am feeling very wealthy and well-nourished, ready for the continuing adventure.