Dear Readers,

You will remember that I recently wrote about my elderly patient and kid sister, Robin (a.k.a. “Rawbaw”).

She had been given a framed photo of her three grown sons. This reconnected her with her past as mother to three boys who had all become vibrant young men. Seeing those handsome devils in one cluster must have cut through her dementia and allowed her to celebrate life, with all its fears and tears. It was something to behold!

I was happy to report on all that in Chapter 30 of my caregiver blog. But then there was a setback: she took the photo from off the shelf behind her piano in the living room and stowed it away where I could not find it.

I clutched — and began to wonder what I was going to say in Chapter 31!

I also began to wonder if losing her youngest son to pancreatic cancer a few years ago was a wound still far too deep for her to think about — or to allow her to look at a group photo that could poignantly remind her of that loss.

The disappearance of the photo truly upset me, and made me question my judgment in sharing it with her.

But a couple days later, the photo miraculously reappeared over the piano.

I cannot describe how gratified I was!

Sure, it can disappear again, but maybe it won't. And if it does, I will now have faith in its return!

I truly believe she has gained in understanding of the ups and downs of her life — and in acknowledgment of how rich her life has been.

Time will tell.

And meanwhile we can both enjoy that photo.

This gets us to what the heck I am going to talk about for the rest of this chapter…

Maybe I will pay homage to everyone who gets sick, loses mobility, suffers all the pains of old age (including god-awful things like cancer and diabetes), and still finds the courage every morning to live on and make the most of life as it is playing out.

No, I will make this more personal.

I would like to nominate my kid sister for “Woman of the Year,” while she's still around. (She will turn 80 on July 19.)

The girl's got grit — far more than I would have in her situation.

Every morning she rises from her bed, transfers to her wheel chair, and faces a far-less-than-perfect day, launched with a blood sugar check (she hates that lancet) and a shot of insulin (she hates that syringe, too). Yet she submits to the routine, while talking animatedly to her dog (now also mine) as if the dog could understand every word she says. (Robin's got me doing it, too. But, in my defense, I will note that Brooke [the mutt] does have a huge word-recognition vocabulary).

Robin also thanks me for preparing her breakfast and coming up with each day's other meals, one way or another. Not much cooking!

Quite bright and well-educated, she talks about all manner of things, and leaves me far behind when she gets into things like music theory and classical music, in general. (She played the viola professionally for most of her life.)

She also tries to share her knowledge of home repair tricks with me, having worked alongside carpenters and other home improvement specialists. I tell her it's hopeless, because I'm left-handed, and she reminds me that she is, too.

The girl has a smart mouth. And her humor is a key ingredient of this family dynamic of ours: a woman handicapped by illness, a man challenged by her needs, and a funky dawg who seems to be amused by it all.

My advice to other caregivers?

Live each day.

Not for what it brings to you, but what you can bring to it.

—Michael E. Hearons