A Letter To Alice

Alice,

First of all, don't chuck this letter away until you've at least read it. I know it's been three long years and you're probably mad at me for coming out of the blue like this, but please give me the chance to explain myself and to beg forgiveness. At the end, if you feel you must, you can throw away this letter and pretend I never even wrote. I'll understand, I swear I will.

Second of all, I would like to congratulate you on your marriage to Nathan. I'm sure my best friend did a good job of comforting you when I left, and for that I'm grateful. (Though why you would actually marry the guy is beyond me.)

Third of all, I know there are a million questions floating around in your head for me. I also know I can't even begin to answer them all. But I am going to try. I owe you that much. Hopefully, I'll answer your major ones, if nothing else.

Why did you leave?
That's a good question. It's also one I find nearly impossible to answer. It wasn't you and it wasn't anything to do with my life in Charleston. It was . . . a feeling. I have no real justification for my going other than I knew I had to.

Where did you go?
Many places. The world was my oyster, as the saying goes. The first place I went was Jekyll Island. Remember when we went there for vacation? We sat on the sand, exhausted after a long day of building sandcastles and collecting seashells, and watched the sun disappear into the sea. I'm no poet, Alice, you know that, but that moment was absolutely beautiful and totally unforgettable. It's one of my favorite memories still to this day. So I went to Jekyll and sat and watched the sun set into the water and thought of you back home in Carolina. Every day I would do that until, after two enjoyable months, I got the itch to be moving on.

I'm not sure anymore where I went next, but I do recall traveling up and down the East Coast for six months. Then I "hopped the Pond" and spent eight months exploring Spain. (Yes, you read that correctly, Alice. By the way, I'm glad you insisted on me paying attention in Spanish class because knowing the language made it much easier for me to get around.) From Spain, I went to Germany. I stayed there for two months, and then I ping-ponged around the rest of the Continent for the next six months. (Literally, I would wake up in a new country everyday. I suppose you could say that I really liked riding the train.)

Missing speaking Spanish but not really wanting to revisit my tracks, I headed to Mexico where I lived it up for three months. One day, after eating a heaping pile of tacos, I stared at my empty plate. It occurred to me while staring at that chipped white plate that I had traveled the world but had never been to see our Neighbor to the North. So I went to Canada with the intention of staying a while. But my skin proved pretty thin and I only stayed one month. Missing the warmth of Charleston, I decided to start heading home. I reentered the United States and for the next seven months wandered the Western Frontier.

I finally ended up here in Colorado. (I have something to tell you about that, Alice, but I'm going to save it until after I'm done answering the next two questions.)

Why didn't you take me with you?
I find myself asking the same thing everyday. I'm not sure why I didn't. I sometimes wish I had. But that feeling I told you about earlier told me to "go it alone" so I did.

If you couldn't take me with you, then why didn't you at least write?
I did. But you never got one of my letters or postcards because I was scared to send them to you. I was so scared that you wouldn't understand. So I didn't even try. (But I knew if I ever returned, I would need a bargaining chip. What better that a bag full of postcards and souvenirs sent from exotic places?)

If that's true, then why are you writing now?
To put it in the simplest of terms, it's my last chance, Alice. I don't have the leisure of time anymore. I can't just show up home tomorrow and apologize and wait for you to finally forgive me. I can't because I'm dying. It's not some sick joke, Alice. I really wish it were. But it's not.

I have Hodgkin's lymphoma. Usually, it's pretty treatable; the survival rate in the early stages is 90%. But I've been on the road for three years, and I ignored the signs: night sweats (I've always sweat in my sleep), lower back pain (I thought it was my heavy backpack), fatigue (again, from the backpack), sudden weight loss (I'd been traveling so much so I thought it was a combination of more exercise and trying new foods, some of which didn't agree with me), etc. I didn't know I even had a problem until I collapsed on a bus. I was taken to a hospital and then treated for dehydration. When I didn't respond to the fluids like I should have, they ran all these tests on me. Finally they confirmed I had Hodgkin's.

So I'm dying despite the odds. And now you can see why I have the courage to write you. If I don't write you now, and explain all this now, you'll never know. And I need you to know, Alice. I need you to know that I've always loved you, and I need you to know that you were, and still are, the most important person in my life.

The way I see it, that feeling I had three years ago was my body telling me get out and live. So I pulled myself out of my hermit-y little shell and saw the world. I met many people. I saw many things. I had my adventures. I lived. I mattered. Now I want you to do the same. Forget college, forget Nathan (okay, so don't really forget him), forget planning for the future, and live. Promise me that.

I'd like for you to come see me before I die, but if you can't, then I understand. I won't hold it against you. Just promise me that you'll live life to the fullest and that you'll always remember me.

Love, always and forever,
Dexter Hadley

P. S. Those letters and souvenirs from the exotic places should show up shortly after you get this letter.

P. P. S. I swore I would never reveal it, but just in case you're wondering who I sent the letters to, well, look to your left when you wake up in the morning.