My car stalled as I was driving sixty-five miles an hour, merging from the freeway onto the Interstate. Just like that, the engine stopped running. I was lucky that the worst thing that happened was waiting for a tow truck. My car would be in the shop for the next five days. I was disappointed because I had to pass on the opportunity to volunteer at an upcoming Amyloidosis support group meeting in Portland, Oregon, a three-hour drive from our home near Seattle, Washington. I'd taken up with the charity when Carlos, my now deceased lover, was ill and fighting for his life. He and I had been involved in an extramarital love affair for over five years and he was the love of my life. During the months he spent waiting to receive high-dose chemotherapy to treat his case of Amyloidosis, a rare and incurable blood disorder, we talked of all the things he would do after he entered into remission. He wanted to be the poster boy for the disease, leading the fight to educate primary care physicians about Amyloidosis symptoms and diagnostic procedures. Instead, he died.