The drive was memorable for many reasons. Dad and I were, once again, traveling alone to the clinic; the three of us would have gone, but since Mom had employment obligations in the form of parent/teacher conferences, she decided, for the parents benefit, to remain at home. It was the year's first conference and no one could have substituted. With my car's heater useless, it was also the first time we drove the truck. Because the truck had a manual transmission, steering and brakes, and Mom's blood pressure rose at the mere thought of having to drive it, we presumed it would nullify her nightmares if she retained use of the family car. Finally, it was the first time we had ever driven to the clinic by way of the prolific back roads that skirted the northern farmland; though we stopped at various intervals to assure our progress, only once did we find ourselves on the right highway traveling the wrong direction. All things considered, it made an interesting drive, and between eating lunch in a small town and buying M and M's at a gas station and watching Iowa's flat land slowly transform into the more hilly dairyland of Wisconsin, I did not burden myself with the essence of our trip; I found more importance in enjoying the seven hours than stewing in the ignorance of my health situation. When we reached the outskirts of Rochester, Dad pulled into a gas station to fill up the tank and I jumped out of the truck for a stretch. It had been a beautiful autumn day. The buildings now etched long shadows upon the sunny landscape; soon shadow would meet shadow until all was covered by darkness. I turned slowly to face Rochester and my eyes locked on the two familiar buildings which towered above the city. The clinic buildings, old and new, represented an integrity in medicine which commanded respect; they could bear the happiest or the most solemn news, and remain untouched, for in those two buildings illness and death were more commonplace than health. Brothers of the same mind and purpose, the buildings formed an entity of themselves, daily inhaling and exhaling patients irregardless of whether the patients actually survived. I took a deep breath to still the sudden, wrenching nervousness which clenched the pit of my stomach. The two buildings defined the reason I was there even if they, as yet, gave me no real answers. It was then that my joy ride ended and the unhappy reality of retiring for the evening in a hospital room created waves in my mental calm. Even my so-called "last supper" was clouded by anxiety.