Summer's Path

by Scott Blum

  SUMMER’S

  PATH

  ALSO BY SCOTT BLUM

  WAITING FOR AUTUMN

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  SUMMER’S

  PATH

  scott blue

  HAY HOUSE, INC.

  Carlsbad, California • New York City

  London • Sydney • Johannesburg

  Vancouver • Hong Kong • New Delhi

  Copyright © 2010 by Scott Blum

  Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com • Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in

  Design: Amy Rose Grigoriou

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.

  The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Blum, Scott.

  Summer’s path / Scott Blum. -- 1st printed ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4019-2716-5 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Terminally ill--Fiction. 2. Spirituality--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.L864S86 2010

  813'.6--dc22

  2009038626

  ISBN: 978-1-4019-2716-5

  13 12 11 10 4 3 2 1

  1st electronic edition, January 2009

  1st hardcover edition, April 2010

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Afterword

  About the author

  Resources

  PREFACE

  The following story came to me shortly before the release of my first book, Waiting for Autumn, after that book had already been written. Because Summer’s Path chronicles the three months prior to the setting of Waiting for Autumn, the decision was made to initially release it as a downloadable e-book before the first book came out in hardcover. And although the e-book touched many lives and I received several incredible letters from people who thanked me for sharing it, there was something that didn’t sit right with me.

  I didn’t understand what bothered me at first— it just didn’t feel finished. But I had already committed to releasing it before Waiting for Autumn came out, and I’m still glad that I did. However, with the benefit of seeing Summer’s Path through the eyes of others, I was finally able to discover what was missing.

  Even though the books are very different, the process of writing them was remarkably similar. They both came to me nearly complete in an instant as a download from the universe, and they both drew on many of my own personal experiences. However, instead of having the benefit (or the burden) of my own life to communicate, as I did in Waiting for Autumn, I was tuning in to the lives of others in Summer’s Path.

  What I didn’t realize while writing was precisely how we are connected to the people we’re closest to. Of course I knew that we’re all connected and are ultimately one and the same. But what I wasn’t consciously aware of until later was that the connections that we forge with others are ultimately based on the common experiences we share. And when writing about others, the most profound insights come from those experiences that both the writer and the subject can relate to. It seems obvious in retrospect, but the way this manifested itself while writing the first version of Summer’s Path was that I subconsciously contributed my own blind spots to others when telling their story. I didn’t want to face certain difficult parts of myself while writing, so it was easier to leave them out altogether, and that’s exactly what I did.

  This book deals with some very difficult subjects that many of us will have to confront sometime in our lives. And through the writing process, I was fortunate enough to delve inward and reclaim several pieces of myself that I had successfully buried deeply for as long as I could remember. Thankfully I was given a second chance to retrieve some of the most sensitive pieces that had been missing, and it’s a privilege to be able to share them in the two additional chapters near the end of this book that weren’t included in the original e-book.

  I believe that difficult experiences are gifts from the universe to help us on our journey. When we take the time to integrate all of our experiences with our present (not just the “positive” ones), we are able to draw from our entire past and ultimately begin to share our hard-earned wisdom with others.

  And in that spirit, I am honored to share with you Summer’s Path.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The pain in his abdomen was getting worse. It had been waking him up every night for the past week, and on this night he wasn’t able to fall back asleep. He knew that he needed to rest, but sometimes walking around relieved the burning sensation that crept up at the base of his esophagus.

  Don slowly pulled the covers back and quietly got out of bed, careful not to wake his sleeping wife. Suzanne was still working full-time as a bookkeeper for a small paper company while trying to take care of him. He felt guilty for what he was putting her through, and although he couldn’t contribute financially, the least he could do was not wake her up in the middle of the night.

  Making his way down the narrow hallway of their one-bedroom craftsman, he could see the full moon peeking through the open drapes. Their house was at the bottom of the foothills of town, but it was still up high enough that he could see the twinkling lights of Eugene that dotted central Oregon’s Willamette Valley. It had taken them several years to save up for their first house, and it had been a badge of pride for them when they finally moved in.

  However, Don couldn’t shake the feeling that one day soon they might need to sell it and resume renting. He had been an engineer for a local semiconductor company since graduating from Oregon State University, but when a multinational had acquired the firm three years ago, it began to systematically “reduce redundancies” one department at a time. Unfortunately, Don’s department was nearly decimated on a day eighteen months prior that he referred to as “Black Friday.” He couldn’t find another job in Eugene because his skill
set was too specific, and when he got sick, he wasn’t able to move to another city with a larger job market.

  In the kitchen, Don caught sight of the microwave clock: 11:11. It was the third time in less than a week that he had casually glanced at a clock when it was that time. He wasn’t superstitious, but the pattern was becoming regular enough to notice.

  He began to look through cabinets and drawers for some antacid pills to help his stomach pain. In the back of his mind he knew they probably wouldn’t do any good, but it was a habit and seemed to bring him emotional comfort even if there was no physical relief. When he opened the drawer containing the tarnished silverware that he and his wife only used during the holidays, he noticed a large stack of unopened bills from the hospital and various doctors he’d seen recently. He had been dreading this day ever since being admitted to the emergency room late one night, when the pain was so unbearable that he could hardly move. And although the hospital had to treat him, he couldn’t forget the knowing look from the admitting nurse when he told her that he didn’t have any insurance.

  Don carefully removed the stack of bills from the silverware drawer and sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, fanning the envelopes around him in a semicircle. The envelope windows from the hospital bills revealed a rainbow of colors, starting with white, then progressing to more vibrant shades of yellow, orange, green, blue, and red. After they were sufficiently organized by color and size, he began to open the bills one at a time and glanced at the past-due amounts while placing them in front of him in two stacks—one for the emptied envelopes, and one for their contents.

  At first he was calm, but as he opened more and more envelopes, he began to get angry. How could they charge this much for just a couple of days’ worth of visits? And other than a few pain pills, they hadn’t given him anything that helped. Most of the time was spent with doctors who didn’t even know what was wrong with him, but they all charged full price even though they were absolutely clueless. And when they finally did figure out what was ailing him, they weren’t sure how to deliver the diagnosis: “The good news is, we now know what’s wrong with you…”

  Being diagnosed with cancer at thirty-nine years old was one thing, but leaving Suzanne to pay off the hospital bills after he was gone hit him hard. The doctors couldn’t agree on exactly how long he would live, but they all said that it wouldn’t be more than six months. And although pancreatic cancer wasn’t curable, the doctors presented many options that could be tried to temporarily improve the quality of life during his last few days.

  But judging by the mountain of medical bills that Don had collected in the flurry of hospital and doctor visits during that initial two-week period, there was no way he could imagine spending any more of Suzanne’s money just so he might die with slightly more comfort. The pain was excruciating at times, which was why he had gone to the emergency room that first night, but seeing how much money he had spent just finding out what was wrong temporarily numbed him.

  Suzanne stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “What’s the matter?” she asked. She looked down and saw the bills surrounding her redheaded soul mate. “Oh, you found those.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me these came? Were you hiding them from me?”

  “I wasn’t hiding them. I just couldn’t bear to open them. Is it bad?”

  “It’s devastating. It’s obscene how much they charge. I counted twelve different doctors I didn’t even see who billed me for things I can’t even pronounce. If they’re going to charge that type of money, they should at least have the decency to stop in and introduce themselves.”

  “They’re probably not used to treating people without insurance,” she said sadly. “We probably should’ve been married sooner.” She nearly choked on the words as her eyes began to well up.

  Don had proposed marriage to Suzanne more than a decade prior, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to marry him. Not that she wasn’t fully committed, but she didn’t want to let the government dictate what she considered to be a sacred agreement between two individuals. The fact that marriage was a state-sanctioned contract with financial incentives angered Suzanne to her core—love shouldn’t be bought or sold. They had held a private commitment ceremony nearly five years ago, and in the end, even their families hadn’t acknowledged their marriage because they weren’t invited to the ceremony.

  As the years progressed, their “statement” didn’t seem to mean anything to anyone but them. Although that had initially been the point, it slowly began to make things more and more complicated, especially when it came to health insurance. The policy provided by Suzanne’s employer didn’t acknowledge domestic partners, so Don had remained uninsured since he’d been out of work.

  Following the diagnosis, they finally went to the county courthouse and signed the papers to become officially married. But afterward they discovered that Suzanne’s company’s policy excluded a spouse’s pre-existing conditions, so Don’s cancer and related symptoms wouldn’t be covered.

  “In my mind we’ve been married for years,” said Don. “We did it our way, and it was beautiful.” He, too, was thinking about how much easier things would be if he had insurance, but he blamed himself for losing his job. He never regretted keeping their marriage private, although he couldn’t forgive himself for being laid off. If he would have made himself more valuable, or if he wasn’t so shy, he could have become friends with the new executives and might still have his job.

  “But the insurance—” Suzanne couldn’t stop her tears from flowing, and turned away from her husband as she silently cried.

  Don crawled over to his wife and softly caressed her long brown hair. Seeing her break down made his heart hurt because of what he was putting her through. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely audible as they caught in his throat. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Over the next few weeks, Don’s depression deepened. He seldom got out of bed, and he refused to eat more than a couple bites of bread a day. He found that the less he ate, the weaker he became. And the weaker he became, the more he would sleep, which gave him a temporary reprieve from the intensifying pain.

  When he did emerge from bed, he would often gravitate toward the kitchen to open the silverware drawer. Every time he did, he would find more and more late notices piling up. They had nearly doubled in volume, and although there were very few entirely new bills, the late fees were quickly compounding, and the paper they were printed on became more vibrant in color. Additionally, the doctors’ assistants began to leave answeringmachine messages under the guise of concern: “The doctor would like to schedule a follow-up visit to discuss how you’re feeling, but we need to take care of your outstanding invoice first. Please call as soon as possible, and we can work out a partial-payment plan if that’s more convenient.”

  As his pain continued to worsen, Don began to research the costs associated with various treatment options. He knew it was a temporary fix, but the pain was becoming unbearable and he could barely function.

  “I think it’s time to go back to the doctor,” Suzanne said one afternoon when she discovered her husband doubled over on the floor of the bathroom.

  “There’s nothing they can do,” replied Don.

  “They said that they could make you feel better.”

  “How? It’s not exactly a curable disease.”

  “But they said that different treatments could make you more comfortable. Don’t you think we should try chemo at least once to see if it helps?”

  “Once isn’t going to make any difference. Besides, do you know how much it costs? We still haven’t paid a dime to those first doctors who didn’t even know what they were doing. And the most expensive bill is the oncologist, who’s the one we need to go back to for the chemo.”

  “We can start paying him a little every month so we can keep the treatments going.”

  “So we can go into even more debt? I don’t think so.”

  Don
had been researching how to pay for the chemotherapy treatments, and he couldn’t figure out a way to make it work. He knew that they would probably let him start the treatments and perhaps allow him to continue until he succumbed to the disease. But the cost, even by the most conservative estimates, would burden Suzanne with financial hardship for many years to come. It was also likely that she would have to sell their house just to keep the collectors off her back for the first few years. And even that wouldn’t be enough to take care of it all. He already knew that he had a life sentence—he wasn’t going to impose another one on his wife, just because she had the unfortunate luck to fall in love with him.

  “Some things are more important than money,” Suzanne said softly. “I can’t stand to see you in so much pain.”

  “Maybe I should just leave,” he said. “Maybe my time is over.”

  “Don’t even joke about that!”

  Although Don had never said it out loud, it was something he had been thinking about for a while. When he first confronted his mortality after being diagnosed with cancer, he had to admit that he was afraid of dying and wanted to put it off as long as possible. He’d also made a promise to himself when he first met Suzanne that he would always take care of her financially, whether he was alive or not. Being able to do so after he was gone was his promise of immortality. And the thought that he would simply cease to exist, without leaving even a little bit of money to her, made him feel like his entire life had been a waste of time.

  But the main reason Don didn’t want to die was because he didn’t want to leave Suzanne. His mother had died of cancer when he was only two years old, and his father had died of it when Don was a freshman in college. He had always felt abandoned by his parents, and he vowed that he would never be responsible for leaving anyone he loved, for any reason.