Now that the elections are behind us, I would like to just take a few moments of your time.   My intention is to keep this letter brief.   Over the past year I have sent out notes.   These notes have been sent with the purpose of educating.   Educating me and educating you.   I don’t have a "cause" or a "foundation" that I am supporting, and there is no motivation for my notes other than to let you know how special each of you has been in my life.

The last 365 days have been utter chaos.   The type of chaos that tears a heart right out of a human chest without an inkling of thought or emotion.   It’s the type of chaos that will collapse both lungs with a sudden burst similar to a popped balloon, not gently like a slow comforting hiss of a radiator humming in winter.

Today, 365 days ago, November 7, 2005 is a day very difficult to reflect upon.   Not unlike any other day, I spent November 7, 2005 at work.   I worked a full schedule, managing to paint a bit in between patients.   I came home, hugged and kissed Charlie, prepared dinner and relaxed and reflected upon both our days’ events over a glass of port.   I fell asleep that evening only to awaken 15 minutes later with a gripping pain that would not let up.   I did not know at that moment that I was dying.

When I realized that my body was behaving in ways that were out of my control, I woke Charlie up.   With the help of our friend and neighbor Greg Polites, I arrived at Barnes Hospital at 1:27 am on November 8th.   The process began.   They told Charlie to prepare himself.   I was not going to make it.   The experts were at work and I relinquished my body and soul to the earthy powers and higher powers.   I kept my body in fine working condition for 47 years and now it was time to see if all that work would pay off.

I started by enduring an Acute Cardiac Tampanade, a bleed in the heart which was filling up so full with fluid that there was no more room for my heart to pump blood.   Why did this happen?   I had a very rare cancer, an Angiosarcoma, which spread to my heart from my liver.   This event is the last thing to happen to late stage metastatic cancer patients.

With each day in the hospital, the nightmare only got worse.   The cancer is non-curable.   The cancer is terminal.   Of course our best efforts will only be palliative.   It happens to less than 5 people a year.   Best case scenario, 3 – 6 months.   No one has survived this.   We’ll keep you comfortable.   Do you have a living will?   A durable power of attorney?   Good luck to you.

Charlie had spent the entire night in the emergency room.   I was touch and go all night.   By 6:30 am, November 8th, he was making the phone calls.   Who to call first, what to say?   Would I survive the day?   We didn’t even know I had cancer yet.   I opened my eyes at 11:30 am.   Exhausted, Charlie was taking a break.   Our two incredible friends, Rodney and Jerry were standing at my side.   The events from the night before were clear.   I remembered much, but why was I here?   I passed out so many times the night prior that I couldn’t piece everything together yet.   All I knew was that Rodney and Jerry were there and that Charlie was not far away.   They assured me and reassured me of that until he returned.

Charlie is my life.   He is my right arm.   He is my will to continue.   He is my reason to fight.   He is my care-giver who is suffering battle wounds fighting for my cause.

I have now battled this terminal and non-curable cancer for 365 days.   Life is terminal.   That does not bother me.   I think non-curable cancer is "in the moment".   I’ve taken 3 – 6 months and run it for a year.   I will take a non-curable cancer and "fix" it.   There may be answers out there, but I think there are many within me as well.   This fight has been our fight.   We are just so fortunate that many of you are fighting for us as well.   Once again, my notes are to be informative.   You have all been helpful in this battle.   I try to present the events in my life in a way in which we can all understand and as one person put it, "and I don’t feel that you’re blowing sunshine up my butt either."

We take each day as they come.   My heart goes out to you yet another day.

Randy