It is harvest time here at our ranch in the Precipice Valley. The aspens have transformed from summer green to a brilliant gold, their leaves happily clapping in a chilly autumn wind, celebrating the bounty of our garden that we have laboriously packed away into the cool, darkness of the root cellar over the past week. I stand and stare at the luscious rainbow of colour: the royal purple cabbages, Halloween-orange carrots, pinkish red potatoes, creamy white heads of cauliflower and the last bunches of forest green broccoli -- all planted, tended and harvested by our own hands, now resting contentedly in boxes side by each. Our winter larder is full. And, yet, as I glory in this fact, there is something missing. I feel restless. Incomplete. Sad. I pause outside the root cellar door to ask myself: why?
My 23-year-old daughter Sara, her boyfriend Brad and I meet with our GP Susan Ackland about Sara's test results at 8:45 a.m.