Dear Readers,

So, at the end of Chapter 37, I brashly promised to continue my train of thought about the dementia that afflicts so many caregivers' patients. Now honoring that promise, I am back with Chapter 38. My plan is to share the rest of my take on the challenge that dementia presents to every caregiver, especially those of us who “live in” and have to deal with it around the clock!

I am really flying by the seat of my pants now, seeing as how I was a social science major in college, with a Spanish minor—which had absolutely nothing to do with caregiving.

BTW, I took my sweet time, getting that four-year degree. Ten years, to be inexact. I got the diploma in the mail in the early summer of 1965.

I should mention that I got drafted while in college and graciously gave two years of my life in active service to the U.S. Army, followed by three years in the U.S. Army Reserve. What that has to do with dementia, I'm not sure. Just wanted you to know I was a sport about it. I think the point here is that you've got to be a sport about things, or caregiving could drive you bananas.

What I plan to do in this new chapter about dementia is to psycho-analyze myself a bit (as a layman) and attempt to dope out the dynamic between a caregiver and the demented patient in his or her care.

It could be said (although a bit of a stretch) that I actually became a live-in “caregiver” in 1965, when I married Carol Ann Hearons (nee Esser). She was as healthy as a horse at the time, and I did give her all due care as a loving husband. We were inseparable till late 2014, when lung cancer claimed her, one year after she was diagnosed with the small-cell variant.

Carol was never demented—and always in command. I think I made that point rather well in Chapter 1 of this blog. In fact, I know I did. I have just now reread it. What a woman.

My current patient, another headstrong woman, is my younger sister, Robin, who was blessed not to get cancer but does, indeed suffer from dementia. I have dealt with her affliction somewhat in Chapter 37, and I hope to connect a few more dots now.

I think this is where I psycho-analyze myself…

I see many signs that I am set in my ways, and that my 84 years have taken their toll.

There's not much I can do about growing old, other than chuckle at all the senior humor online—but I can attack my stubbornness.

I confess to recently not working on self-improvement on my final lap through life. I guess I thought it would be a waste of time. But now I see that the quest for perfection should never end—because you never know when you will end.

Good grief.

I just did the math. If I live to be 100 (and I just might), I've got 16 more years to hone my caregiver skills, sharpen my Scrabble game, improve my table manners, learn how to use our newfangled cell phone (and TV remote) (and this quite frustrating new computer), and enrich my life, in general. Maybe even (finally) have Robin teach me how to play the piano. Maybe even get right with God.

This whole notion of resetting myself is a mind-blower.

I must make a list.

I feel so…empowered.

And I can empower Robin. For Heaven's sake, she's not deceased. She's just demented!

I pledge to have her give me my first piano lesson this week.

And to get her to more stores.

And out more, just to be out of the house and doing.

I also pledge to get her wily mutt to the dog park every M-W-F till one of us drops.

I know.

I've said that before, but I have never meant it before.

I feel…liberated. Embarrassed. Contrite. And very much alive.

Now my only problem is…how am I going to top Chapter 38?

—Michael E. Hearons