Dear Readers,

Much has happened since Chapter 28. And much has not happened.

You will recall that this past summer I took a trip to Camp High Sierra (a nostalgic reunion in the California Sierras) and to Ireland (the fabled land of my ancestors), and was amazingly rejuvenated. Bless my middle Wisconsin nephew for standing in for me as caregiver — and his wife for putting together the whole adventure on the Emerald Isle, plus serving as navigator in the rental car and — a biggie — for paying for just about my entire share of the whole adventure. Thanks to her giving sister, too, who drove the rental car for us in Ireland, a land where everyone drives on the wrong side of the road. That feat was entirely beyond my pay grade. The girls' father and I, both octogenarians, just sat in the back seat of that tiny vehicle with the overflow luggage and marveled at how she handled all the round-abouts. Our lives were entirely in her capable hands.

Truth be told, since my return to Appleton I have settled back into reacting to life's twists and turns and not much else. Looking after a woman with myriad diabetes-related maladies (including dementia) is a highly reactive sport! Sometimes I go upstairs, out of earshot, to swear a bit, and the release is miraculous. I come back downstairs a new man. Then I get right back into my Floyd Nightingale mode, doing everything I can to make my kid sister's life as pleasant as it can be, given her unenviable circumstances. She is a handful, but every night as she turns in, she tells me, “Thank you for everything,” and that always squares our account. (I also know she is is aware of my great love for her funky dawg, who kind of runs the place.)

I don't know where I'm going with this chapter. But that has never stopped me before. So, I will plow on. I think I want to get outrageously philosophical about the end of life. No, not death by cancer. Rawbaw has been spared that illness, as have I. But she did lose her youngest son to pancreatic cancer a few years ago, and still weeps now and then about it, as if it happened only last week. Dementia is cruel, that way, among others. (I have some notion of how bad it must be, as my senior moments multiply exponentially!)

The end of life I'm talking about is what happens to us all, regardless of our luck in sidestepping awful diseases. Everyone I know ages, and we all wear out, sooner or later. I think we should all prepare for it. Sure, I plan to live to be 100, but, as my late wife, Carol Ann (who died of cancer), once famously said, “Plans don't work!” A very insightful woman. I still talk to her (one way) about that. Of course, I would be spooked out of my socks if she answered back. Better that I keep our ongoing relationship a monologue. (Suffice it to say that she lives on!)

At the top of this chapter, I said much has not happened. Well, I refer specifically to the automatic dishwasher I was going to master, and the piano lessons that I was going to have Rawbaw (a professional, classical musician) give me. I have rationalized my way out of both commitments! (Details upon request. But I'm sure it has much to do with lack of energy. Hell, I turn 82 on January 4th, and I sure ain't the man I used to be. I can nap standing up! In short, I think I am living proof that you can't teach an old dog new tricks!)

I have a friend who just lost her husband to heart problems, after a 40-year struggle with them. She has no concept of Heaven, and is stoically saying that when she dies she will just stop. That's it. She says she just wants to be a sweet memory in the hearts and minds of people who've loved her and whom she has loved back. Jeez. Nice sentiment, but I want a lot more than that. I want a party to end all parties. I want to reunite with my folks, and apologize to them for having been such a problematic little kid. I want to catch up with my wife and hear about her extraterrestrial adventures. (I have told friends that knew her well that she might be trying to unionize Paradise — just like she tried to unionize Camp High Sierra in 1959. What a handful she was.)

I mentioned Heaven. Maybe that's too Christian a term for someone who spent every Sunday of his childhood trying to get out of going to Mass. (When I was 7 years old, I thought Sunday morning was playtime.) Maybe I am talking much more generally about the afterlife — maybe I am simply envisioning existence in a new realm where we all get the whole story. It seems we should. And report cards. Maybe we will. And those of us who found true love on Earth should be allowed to resume that wonderful relationship within the new dimension.

Hey, I just want my wife back, and, yes, I will knuckle under to whatever the Creator of the Universe lays down as general rules. I am not a complete idiot. Just a somewhat hedonistic old man who is also a proven team player — someone whose folks tried mightily to raise him right and pretty much succeeded. Oh, the gratitude I will heap on them if/when I catch up with them.

I think I have borrowed selectively from my Catholic upbringing in matters of faith. I feel certain that the good among us will be praised and the bad will be punished. But possibly rehabilitated. God has made it abundantly clear that He can do anything.

Bottom line, I think we will still have our free will in the next life — to make amends or to make mistakes — to say and do great things or perfectly awful ones — and we will definitely pay a price if we don't get with the program, once we all know what it is.

I hope to see you all up there someday, choosing your words wisely. I, for one, think I will be on my best behavior!

—Michael E. Hearons