8/9/1973

Rebecca is ill, has been laid up in the master bedroom for sometime with a chronic fever. The doctor comes daily, but is at a loss as for a cause, other than to say “Seems like she is about the same.” When I suggest the hospital, she goes quiet and only says “I don’t think it has come to that yet.” Not sure what to do with myself, other than to smoke incessantly and pace our long porch. The thought of her not being here with me turns me inside out.