Spent the day (well, last night from 1am to 5am, and then odd bits of today) reading Michael Gearin-Tosh's book, Living Proof, which about eighteen people have sent me. It's an immediately engaging account of how Gearin-Tosh did without chemotherapy, opting for less toxic cures instead. I read this copy because it came with a long letter from a ninety-year-old called Phyllis Goldman, whom I've never met, who describes herself as "an old duck" and whose very warm words just got to me.
For every encounter which leaves you reeling - like these, for example: a local woman who came up to me and said, "well, should we still be praying for you Dina? because some authorities say that after a certain point one should stop praying...", or another woman, someone Anthony used to know but hadn't seen in some years, who came up to us and launched into a description of her husband's illnesses like this, "oh yes, he's just in a terrible way, he's got everything wrong with him, but it could be worse, thank God he hasn't got cancer, eh?" - there are the contacts from complete strangers who are just very, very kind.
Ironically enough, as I finished the Gearin-Tosh, the first of my nails fell out. After weeks of turning to mush, this was the first whole nail to just quietly peel itself off - a chemotherapy reaction.