Treya:
A few minutes later the three of us are in a private room. Dr. Richards mumbles something like I'm sorry but the tumor is malignant. I am shocked, almost frozen. I don't cry. In a dazed kind of calm I ask several intelligent questions, trying to hold on, not daring yet to look at Ken. But when Dr. Rechards leaves to call a nurse, then, and only then, I turn to look at Ken, stricken. I burst into tears, everything dissolves around me. Somehow I am out of my wheel chair and into his arms, sobbing, sobbing.
Ken:
Strange things happen to the mind when catastrophe strikes. It felt like the universe turned into a thin paper tissue, and then someone simply tore the tissue in half right in front of my eyes. I was so stunned that it was as if absolutely nothing had happened. A tremendous strength descended on me, the strength of being both totally jolted and totally stupefied. I was clear, present, and very determined. As Samuel Johnson drily commented, the prospect of death marvelously concentrates the mind. I felt marvelously concentrated, all right; it was only that our universe had just been torn right down the middle. The rest of the afternoon and all of that evening unfolded in slow-motion freeze-frames, one clear and exquisitely painful frame after the next, no filters, no protection.