Man, we just got a bad-news e-mail this morning about Hiker. As I mentioned before, his leukemia is back. The docs say that he might only have a few more weeks to live. He's in the hospital right now, even though he hates it. His choices are stay there or go into hospice care, and Hiker is not quite ready to throw in the towel. That's a good picture of Hiker for you.

We haven't really touched base with the family since we first heard of Hiker's relapse--though Noodles did talk to Hiker on the phone. Just last night we were talking about the awkwardness of wanting to be available for the family but not wanting to smother them. (I guess the fact that we think that way shows that Noodles and I both value moments of solitude.) Now, of course, our first thoughts are to visit him with nary a thought as to if we're intruding or not. I suppose it's a desire to say goodbye... maybe. Ah, there's my problem. I can't really get into that. I can't say that I'm expecting a miracle cure... well, maybe I am. I don't expect Hiker to leap out of bed and suddenly be whole, but I guess I do expect him to quietly live on day after day, defying the medical prognosis, until we all realize he's better. That's how the two miracle cures in my life worked out. (C'mon God, what's one more? I know You're looking forward to having Hiker up there in Heaven with you, but what's a few more decades to You?)