But Mulder, if there's something worrying you, please speak out. Don't ever think that there was something you could have said or done that could have prevented this. Why do I say this? Because I know you, Mulder. You have a guilt-complex a Catholic would be proud of. I know what you're thinking, and I know why. But knowing doesn't change a thing. I'm dying, Mulder. You and I both know that, know this to be a cancer that cannot be controlled through any normal means. To say that chemo is useless is an understatement, but I continue with the treatments anyway. Hoping, always hoping, for that elusive miracle.
I'm not really suffering, Mulder, beyond the physical aspect of it all. To a degree my mother is going through hell, but she has it easy compared to what I think you're going through. My bright angel. I only wish I knew how to soothe it all for you, but I don't; I can only watch helplessly from the sidelines, as my cancer grows within me like some malevolent fetus, and know that it will get a million times worse for you before it can even begin to get better.
Mulder, it's me. Don't shut me out. I need you, more now
than I've ever done before.