I was in a room in a hospital where I had come for a checkup. When the doctor and nurses walked into the room to see me, the doctor quickly informed me that I had developed a terrible disease, and that I was going to die very soon. He tried to explain the disease, which was rare and had something to do with my lungs.

Almost in a state of total shock, I stumbled numbly from the hospital. Uncertain what to do, I made my way to a gigantic church, walked inside and sat down smack in the middle of the assembled congregation. I immediately saw this was one of those churches which broadcast its services on television. The preacher, delivering his sermon in front of the congregation, suddenly began talking about me. He already knew about my illness, and he said it would be best if I would simply commit suicide. He mentioned that it was now Friday or Saturday, and that I would kill myself by Tuesday. When I heard this, I immediately stood up and assured the congregation that I definitely wasn't going to take my own life. I maintained that suicide was completely out of the question.

I quickly made my exit from the church and repaired to the 29th Street House. Once inside the house, I met with my mother and I apprized her of my disease. I then sat down in the living room and tried to decide what I could do about the disease. I picked up a medical magazine and began leafing through it. Only now did I realize how difficult it would be for the average person to discover the cause of a disease, especially if the person didn't have long to live. Understanding the disease seemed so complicated. Even the articles in the magazine were difficult to comprehend. One abstruse article described the different kinds of atoms and how they merged in the body to form different molecules.

I began wondering why God had let this terrible thing happen to me. If I were going to die, I would be unable to accomplish anything with my life. It seemed so horrible that God would permit such a thing, but I couldn't formulate any answers.

 I switched on the television. To my surprise, I discovered that my disease and I were being discussed on a religious program. One boy stood up and said that he had known me long ago and that we used to eat red hot candy together. When I realized my full name, "Steve Collier," was being broadcast on the show, I was afraid people would now start bothering me, wanting to interview me or offer their sympathy. I told my mother that if anyone came to see me, she shouldn't let them in.

When someone came to the door, however, my mother promptly allowed a woman to enter. Fortunately the woman was only one of my mother's friends with a whole troop of small children. To my relief, the woman (whose name sounded like "Jesse") obviously didn't know I had the disease. When they walked in, I only had a cover over me, with no pants on. When I had a chance, I stood up and pulled on some pants.

I still didn't understand what disease I had, and I wanted to return to the hospital to find out. Even though I knew it was Sunday, I walked outside, jumped on a motorcycle, and headed toward Portsmouth's Scioto Memorial Hospital. I took the short-cut on Sunrise Avenue over the reservoir, figuring this was the same route an ambulance would take to the hospital in an emergency. At one spot along the route the street was caved-in and I had to ride along the sidewalk for a little ways.

When I finally reached the hospital, I dismounted my motorcycle and walked inside, determined to find out what kind of disease I had. I knew someone should be able to look up my records, check my tests, and tell me the exact name of my disease.

Instead of conferring with anyone, I abruptly turned around and walked back out. As soon as I stepped out of the hospital, I encountered my old friend Steve Weinstein and another fellow standing outside. Steve and I had attended high school together in Portsmouth many years before and we had remained friends through the years. As I paused near some trees to talk with them, Steve managed to reach one of the upper limbs of a small walnut tree (six or seven meters tall) and pull the limb down, just to show how strong he was. I objected to his action, fearing he would damage the tree. And then it happened—the limb broke off. I was upset; what he had done made no sense. However, I could tell the tree would still live, even though its top limb had been broken off.

Finally, I informed Steve and the other fellow that I was going to die. Neither of them believed me at first, but finally they realized I was telling the truth.

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