Days after Diane’s hawk sighting she fell ill (is that better than she got sick?). Real ill/sick. Two eye infections and bronchitis that raised her core to about 103. She continued working until long after raspy whispers replaced her voice.

I accompanied her to her doctor’s appointment at Acton Medical, which was the day before our scheduled flight to visit my folks in Evansville. The waiting room is square with a partioned glassed-in receptionist area, multiple chairs, and doors leading in, out, and into various doctors’ offices. We sat in the waiting room, Diane slumped, coughing quietly, peering through rheumy eyes – less than an infected shadow of her former self. Finally, the nurse opened the door behind us and called, “Diane.” I put down my magazine as Diane, as if the voice were St. Peter calling her home, looked up at the ceiling and squeaked, “Yes?”

This a clear and only semi-humorous memory, and it returns in technicolor because we’re about to embark on this year’s trip to my hometown. In the office, she asked her doctor about flying to Indiana. He said, “I can get you there, but I wouldn’t want to sit next to you.” He should have said, “I wouldn’t want to be you.” An excruciating plane ride preceded four days in bed at the Marriot.

Matthew’s reward for his years of dutifully accompanying us to art exhibits.