Dear Readers,

There has been a change of course, re Chapter 36.

I had mentioned in Chapter 35 that I would probably dwell on my kid sister's dementia at length, but I think that I have now proved in spades that dementia is contagious—by losing another sizable chunk of my mind while serving as a live-in caregiver to her.

Okay. To be truthful, I am not pointing any fingers at Rawbaw. I never was the sharpest knife in the drawer…and, of course, I am joking about dementia being contagious. At age 84, I am ready to admit that I am progressing nicely toward balminess without any outside help whatsoever. But all of you regular readers who wade through my blather already knew that. Let's just say that I'm no stranger to senility!

Anyway, what I think I should focus on now is just how important all of you people are who step forward to look after someone less fortunate. You selflessly allow that someone to stay home, in familiar surroundings, with the pet dog or cat or iguana (or snake) and to continue to live life at a comfortable level until such time as that grateful soul can manage without you—or, if it's in the cards—departs this realm on your watch.

What I want to do in this new chapter is praise every caregiver out there for doing something that is anything but a piece of cake.

Beyond that, I wanted to share with those of you who are concerned about stressing out that there are mental tricks to help you avoid such discomfort.

Tell yourselves that, were it not for you, that person you love enough to move in with (and put up with!) would be unbelievably unhappy in any care center, no matter how upscale.

Tell yourselves that you are making a huge difference in that person's life—because you are.

And ask yourselves what you could be doing that is more important than caring for someone you love.

Right.

There is no more honorable endeavor than that which we do for those precious human beings who cannot do for themselves.

I get all puffed up, just thinking about it. I feel downright important when I give Rawbaw her insulin injection every morning, and she says, “Thank you for saving my life.”

(Not everyone can self-inject!)

She often also expresses her gratitude for my efforts toward keeping her funky mutt spoiled rotten.

But, being a wit with a scathing sense of humor, she also rags me for being such noisy kitchen help.

(I drop things. I bang cupboards and leave them open. And I often also forget to put an obscene pile of cheese on her daily egg omelet. And sometimes, Heaven forbid, I serve her up a cup of lukewarm coffee.)

She jokes that she is training the dog to bite me.

I tell her that I feed the dog, and the dog will never bite me. I subtly add that the dog is untrainable.

She accuses me of “alienation of affection.”

I say, “Eat your heart out.”

We really should take our act on the road.

Just might, when this pandemic goes away.

Long story short, I have found that the caregiver role (starring me, as “Floyd Nightingale”) has been one of the most important roles in my life.

I trained for my role here in Wisconsin by caring for my late wife in Michigan, whom I lost to lung cancer in 2014. This current gig could run longer, because kid sister Rawbaw is only 81—and as ornery as can be!

You have your own caregiver stories, and I'm sure they're at least as meaningful as mine.

So, tell them. And bask in the good feeling you'll get from doing so.

You know, I still have rough days “on the job,” and I still occasionally ask myself, “What is more important than what I'm doing?”

The honest answer always rises up in my heart, in three simple words: zip, nada, zilch.

Hold your heads high, fellow caregivers. You are a special bunch.

—Michael E. Hearons