Despite my efforts at self-distraction these thoughts sneak into my mind. The riskiest time for such ponderings is after I’ve wandered downstairs at 5 a.m. to take my dose of morphine. I’ve always been a light sleeper so it’s not unusual for me to lie awake in bed until the girls get up at 7 a.m. These two hours are the worst in my entire day. It’s during these hours that I’ve come to learn how horribly lonely cancer is. I think that’s the worst part of it. The loneliness. It’s so easy to lose all hope when you feel you’re completely alone. Back in what I refer to as my “previous life ” before I became religious I was a wilderness backpacking guide in the Rockies. Besides teaching the more obvious essential survival skills — how and what to pack navigation shelter dealing with wildlife encounters — one of the most important lessons I tried to pass on to my fellow hikers was the idea of hope. The worst thing the biggest threat out there I’d say is not a grizzly bear. It is not starvation or dehydration or extreme weather conditions. The biggest killer is losing hope. Losing hope almost guarantees death. Still I will not pretend that I have not struggled these last few months since my diagnosis. I won’t pretend that I haven’t cried into my pillow until it was soaked that I haven’t contemplated giving in giving up. That I haven’t said Maybe the world just doesn’t need me — maybe this is just my time to go. I’ve haven’t been exactly bitter during these moments but I certainly struggle to see the point of it all. Why cancer? Why now? What am I supposed to learn? It’s morbidly interesting to me that I just left a job a very odd job where I dealt with death day and night. The irony is not lost on me: Here I am essentially in the same position as so many of the people I guided before their own deaths.