Doctor Cindy Rosethorn struggles to save lives as an oncologist, but no one will save her soul. Her ex-husband—a man twice her age, her previous professor at medical school—had traded up for a young nurse, and she lives inside her office, fearing getting caught and fired. She is lost among the hospital corridors, and her patients die, decay around her.
She takes on a new patient, Timothy Fox, whom clinically she predicts will be dead of lymphoma in a matter of months, regardless of the radiation therapy she prescribes. He’s a man of the fields, an ancient spirit and sings poetry of the natural world. He brings her herbs, love and life, and she falls into him, violating the basic gospel of being a doctor: professional detachment. Their bodies join and merge in such ecstasy that she becomes addict to this fox. Cindy struggles against their love, but Timothy’s time is so fleeting in this world. How can she turn away the great love of her life? Can she love him and yet not hurt his treatment? Can she do what’s best for him and sacrifice her own needs?
Death makes the love real. San death and loss, there would be no love. She learns this in her agony and finds peace, finds the eternal.
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« Ce fut le 9 avril 1756 que je quittai la ville pour n’y plus habiter », écrivit Jean-Jacques Rousseau dans les Confessions. Pris dans la tourmente de la courtisanerie intellectuelle des salons parisiens, Rousseau se retire à l'Ermitage, sur les terres de Madame d'Épinay. Le philosophe, en butte…