I'd begun to get sick before the mail came. Thinking about the mail, when it would arrive, and how I would handle it.

I walked to the mail box in my favorite boxer shorts and a t-shirt wet from a workout.

There it was. Alone, without any bills or throwaway newspapers, no mail except this one letter, a pink one like the last delivery.

Not through the postal service, hand delivered-- no stamp.

I casually took the letter into the house and was actually embarrassed that I might be seen. I didn't want anyone to notice how scared I was.

The letter sat on the kitchen counter for an hour before I opened it. I had three shots of tequila before I opened it. I called Eric seven times, trying to reach him-- to beg him to come home. His secretary said he'd been busy. On an important phone call, not to be interrupted. I finally gave up and got a knife from the drawer and used it as a letter opener.

Out fell his little poem...

I called Billy Foster. I broke down. I asked him for the name of a good Psychiatrist. I remembered he'd seen to a few in Los Angeles.

Then I went into the bathroom and locked the door.

And cried some more.

What was happening to me?