I was home once again, and my greatest wish had been realized. Somehow I thought my life would now be simplified, and that I could wield complete control over the ways in which I desired to spend my time and conduct my remaining life. With something akin to fascination, I looked at myself in the mirror and focused my eyes on my protruding stomach region which would one day be the cause of my death. The subjects of death and other intense, wrenching emotions possessed a magnetism which had always held me spellbound. I was drawn to the startling views of human tragedy in both literature and art forms; a life tottering precariously on the edge of sanity or mortality could offer a glimpse of the more painful aspects of reality which many often neglect to acknowledge. Images which accurately depicted the horror of war or the anguish of a mother of a stricken child were those which captured my attention; though beautiful works would please my eye, only the gripping views of life held the capacity to stir my senses. The thought that I now shared a common bond with those gripping views of existence similarly held my fascination. I wondered what my family would undergo during the harsh period following my death; I pondered whether I would see earthly lives when I no longer was part of the world. I spent lovely afternoons in peaceful reflection, drinking in the earth's beauty to somehow retain the days as if they were my last. Time itself lost its importance as I embraced the cycles of nature and my own life as one, rather than separate entities. I marveled at the pitiable lack of control we, as humans, have over our lives; after attempting to rule the world, we are at last brought to the level of all things through the element of mortality. I shared a kinship with autumn following the rediscovery of cancer. Like a tree divested of its leaves, its only proof that life yet flourished deep within; I questioned when my color, too, would fade, rendering me helpless against winter's icy grasp (death). Death was no romantic notion which smuggled lives on moonlit nights; it was merely an endless cycle. Nov. 1981... I quieted my thoughts and listened as a distinctly familiar echo of sadness resounded in the autumn air. It seemed as if the old tree above me was attempting a futile last stand in the face of the impending desolation of winter. A blast of northerly winds scattered the furiously spinning leaves to form a semi-circle about my feet. I picked up the leaf, noting its fragility as it crumbled under my touch. I realized that I was observing a change of seasons in which only brittle remnants of spring remained to display that life had actually existed. A gust sent the fragmented leaf to be buried unceremoniously in the midst of thousands of other leaves, which were rustling their distaste for their hapless plight.