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(From my journal dated Sunday August 4, 2019)I am so grateful Jessica was here yesterday. Not only because she was able to spend time with her uncle, but because of what happened on the way back to Sylvania, shortly after we left the hospital. We were barely out of Savannah when my whole body began to shake. Quiver, seemingly from the inside out. Even though I was talking to Jessica and she appeared to understand, nothing I said made much sense to me. I had not had a seizure in years, but the sense of one coming on was as familiar to me as that sinking feeling one gets when they are suddenly hungry. Although I'd nearly been stripped of the ability to have two coherent thoughts over the past weeks, I knew enough to know that I needed to pull over. The sign for Cary Hilliard's shimmered in the late-afternoon heat like a dream-induced beacon from the right side of the road. “I need to eat something,�� I said to my daughter. “I need to stop and eat something solid.�� Cary Hilliard's has been a family favorite as far back as I can remember. When we were children, our parents brought us here and then, after we were orphaned, Van and I came together whenever I came “home�� and we took a trip to Savannah �� to shop �� to see family. “I have ordered the same thing every single time I walk in here,�� I told Jessica. "I have not a single memory of eating anything but ..." I didn’t change this night either. Deviled crab, fat french fries, tender hush puppies, green beans glistening from being cooked in lard, sweet iced tea.After dinner, Jessica drove us home. I’m not even sure what time it was when we arrived, but I took care of the usual--kitty litter, laundry, getting the mail. After a shower hot enough and pelting enough to get the smell of a hospital off me, I told Jessica to turn on the TV and find something mindless, like The Golden Girls. Something to make me laugh. Something to make me forget. I stretched out in the reclining love seat, sitting where Van typically sat and, lately, slept. Within minutes, the issues facing Dorothy and Rose and Blanche and Sophia filled the room. Issues that could be solved and would be solved in the short span of a half hour. Before the first episode concluded, however, I fell asleep, comforted in the knowledge that my child lay nearby on the sofa.-------------From the moment of planning my trip to Ireland, I knew that I wanted to take Clare and her family out to dinner one night. A nice dinner. One with drinks and appetizers and a main course to remember. Now, in Edinburgh, the opportunity had come; that night we would dine in the hotel's posh restaurant. Light from the numerous chandeliers had been muted; their crystals dripped like diamonds from the queen's crown and shimmered in a room that had a decidedly 1920s feel about it. The woodwork, the tailored uniforms of the wait staff, the framed photos of the famous on the walls ... but not the music, which came live from a guitarist who'd set up in the front of the restaurant. A blessing because we were seated near the back. Clare and I had arrived before David and Diane and ordered a bottle of pinot grigio blush for the two of us to enjoy. Within minutes Clare's parents joined us and, after placing their drink and appetizer orders, we settled in to study our menus. What would we feast on tonight, our first night in Scotland?I had become as much a creature of habit here as I was at home, ordering the same meal in every restaurant. Here, the words "fish and chips" skipped from my mouth on an air of sheer anticipation (you cannot get fish and chips like this in the US). I had come to notice that Clare was as much that creature; she had ordered her usual haggis (but for an appetizer) and, uncharacteristically, steak for her main meal.For the next couple of hours, over music entirely too loud and food entirely too delicious, the four of us chatted (as best we could) and laughed and simply relaxed into the evening. In between the measures of the night's symphony, I often found myself mesmerized by a young couple sitting nearby--she sat quietly nursing her drink and nibbling at her food while he focused on his phone and ordered one drink after the other. Eventually she got up and walked out, not to return while he continued to work the tiny keys of his phone and down his drinks. I mentioned all of this to Clare telling her that I wondered what their story was. Because, I know, everyone has a story . . . and those stories often find their way into my books. But there was also a memory that moved between their table and ours . . . all those times Van and I sat across from each other in restaurants. But we talked. We shared. We remembered. And we told each other stories the other had yet to learn.And, I pondered . . . was the woman who left not to return the young man's girlfriend or sister or wife or, even, a coworker? Was he even remotely aware of the time he'd lost, precious moments given over to a lifeless phone and whiskey that, tomorrow, would have passed from his body and into the sewer? Did he know, I wondered, that those moments would never return to him again. . .

(From my journal, dated Friday, August 2, 2019)My brother sleeps. This means the pain, although not out of his body, is out of his mind. He sleeps and his hands move as though he is eating a sandwich. Or working on something intricate. I watch him, noting every detail until I cannot bear it another minute and so I walk out of the room, quietly so as not to disturb him.As soon as I come around the corner of the nurses�� station, I see two of my angels—Carla and Jo Beth—walking shoulder to shoulder, smiling when they see me. They carry cups of Dunkin Donuts coffee and a box of Dunkin donuts. I smile at that. They have come to bring not only life’s necessary sustenance, they have brought donuts and coffee, too.We step down the hall and into the waiting area where, for days now, the television has been turned to the Sci Fi channel and a Twilight marathon is being featured. I am not only sick to death of death and dying, these halls and these smells, I am sick to death of vampires and werewolves and people who seemingly live forever because of a curse they cannot escape.My angels and I eat donuts and sip coffee and discuss reality while I attempt to keep my eyes away from a ghostly Robert Pattinson. When I tell Carla and Jo-Beth that I am taking Van home and that hospice has been called, they both hesitate, concerned as to what may and probably will happen when we are alone. I tell them I’m not sure as well, but it has to be Van’s decision. They understand, but they are still concerned.Later, Dr. Negreya stops by Van’s room bearing the news that nothing he does will change the outcome. Van looks up at him and says, “No more chemo, Dr. Negreya.�� The good doctor looks sad—he will lose this patient. The outcome is not what he or any of us have hoped for. He shakes Van’s hand and says, “It’s been a pleasure, Van�� and Van thanks him for all he did. Dr. Barnes comes by as well and I see the love and respect he has for my brother. They shake hands. “Man, you have so inspired me,�� he says. “I’ll never forget you …”Later, the social worker stops me in the hall. Her name is Cheryl and I like her a lot. “I’ve called hospice,�� she says. "Everything is set up."Okay �� okay �� okay.Jessica calls. She is on her way up from Florida to see her uncle a final time. Donald and his grandson stop by as well. He and Van—the best of friends since childhood—share laughs and stories only they are privy to. Later, I walk Donald and his grandson to the elevators so I can update him better on what's next. That Van has stopped chemo. That he will see the face of Jesus sooner than we expected.Halfway to the elevator, Donald stops, leans against the wall, and cries.----------After exhausting ourselves at Edinburgh Castle, Clare and I decide that it's time to head back down the hill and toward the hotel. Our official check-in time has come and we're anxious to get our luggage from the storage closet to the room. Perhaps have a cup of tea to sustain us for the rest of the evening.But halfway there, we stop . . .There is a cemetery in Edinburgh . . . many, actually, but this one sits near the base of the castle and is adjacent to the Parish Church of St. Cuthbert, a church believed to have been founded between 600 and 700 A.D. We had no idea about this at the time, of course, but the solitude . . . the green . . . the hewed stones of witness to lives lived and lost beckoned us into it's walled sanctuary as if they'd been expecting us all along. We walked along the intricately carved markers and impressive statues, breath caught in our chests, neither of us saying much. Time slowed. A breeze came through and billowed our clothes and tussled our hair with the tenderness of an old woman's fingers. I couldn't get over the ancientness of the burial ground. The reminder that, since time began, men and women and boys and girls have been born and, most times, lived and loved and died. "Dying is as much a part of living as being born," my brother had said to the friend who couldn't grasp his news, and these reminders marked his words as truth. People die... Yet looming over us, beyond the high stone walls, the steeple of the church stretched toward the blue arch of the sky, reminding me that this ... this ... is not the end. And the cross that glimmered in the afternoon sun spoke of life everlasting and the one who had defeated the finality of death. "I'll take one breath here," Van had told the doctor who'd brought the bad news, "and one breath with the Lord." And so, he did, and he had, leaving me to walk within gardens of stone.Long minutes passed as we stopped to say several of the names of those who'd been buried there. We mourned over the lives of the children who'd not seen enough birthdays and ooh'd over the heartfelt tributes from loved ones to loved ones. And then, we spilled out into the hustle and bustle of the city center as if death were no more and the busyness of life was all that was. We found our way back to the hotel easily (a first), claimed our luggage, found our room, and had our tea.Life continued according to schedule. Additional images of St. Cuthbert's Parish Church

On Thursday, August 1, 2019, Dr. Barnes walked into my brother's hospital room. Swept in, is more like it. The door rushed open and in he came, white lab coat moving around him as if caught in a breeze. Van had been sitting up in bed, watching the news. I sat against a far wall, laptop open, editing Claire Fullerton's upcoming novel, . I immediately hit "save," and lowered the top as the good doctor said, "Turn off the TV. We need to talk.""Okay," my brother said, as if this were any ordinary day, any ordinary talk. But I knew ... over the last two days something inside me had prepared for it. There had been too many tests. Too many procedures. Too many words of ominous news.Dr. Barnes sat in the chair opposite Van's bed, crossed his legs, laced his fingers, and spilled, "You've only got one way out, man ..."I could see by the rise and fall of his chest that my brother had been caught off guard. "Okay," he said."I've called Dr. Negrea," Dr. Barnes continued. "There's really no point in continuing the chemo unless that's what you want. But the tests indicate that the tumor is growing in spite of our best efforts and the chemo is doing nothing but beating you up."Van nodded. We both knew that much was true. "I've also called hospice." He raised his hands as if in surrender. "That's not to say you're going to die tomorrow."My brother looked at me. For confirmation? For comfort? Both, perhaps. "Van," I said, allowing my words to come slowly. "The goal of the hospital is to keep you alive. The goal of hospice is to allow you to die with dignity and in as much comfort as possible. We both know, you've been in awful pain here."He nodded again. Dr. Barnes was clearly upset having to bring such news to someone so young and he said so. And then my brother did the most extraordinary thing. He leaned forward and locked eyes with the one who had dealt such a blow. "Dr. Barnes," he said, "I'm not going to die. I'm only changing my address. I'll take one breath here, and the next with the Lord."The words moved the doctor; I could see that much in his expression. "I like that," he said. "I like that a lot."He shook hands with us both and left the room, his footsteps much slower than when he had come in, as if to deliver such news was something he'd had to take a deep breath to do. He'd taken a deep breath and pushed that door open as quickly as he could to say what he had to say in the only way he knew how: straight and to the point. But this was news he had not wanted to give and my brother's words back to him, had been a gift. A reprieve. Forgiveness.Van looked at me. I at him. I had placed my laptop on the counter next to me--I don't know when--and so I stood and walked over to the bed. Sat on the edge next to my sweet little brother who had grown so frail, so like a Holocaust survivor. I wanted nothing more than to gather him into my arms and cry and scream and wail, but I knew this was not in his best interest. So, instead, I held his hand. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in a neck that had grown so thin as to display every artery and vein, the skin stretched taunt. "I didn't see that one coming," he said."I did," I replied honestly."You did?"I nodded. "I did," I said again. He paused. His eyes told me he was calculating things the way he approached so much of life. Mr. Analytical. The air around us grew thick with grief, as if we'd invited it in. As if it had any right to take its place so soon in our journey. "I wonder how much time I have left?"he asked me. I couldn't stand it and I wouldn't stand for it. Grief would not win out--not yet, anyway. We had plenty of time to cry. To mourn what we would lose, both of us. "Twenty-seven minutes," I quipped. "What do you want to do with it?"Van's eyes grew large. "What??"I laughed then. "Scared you, didn't I?"He laughed, too. "Yeah!" And then we laughed together.But on the way home ... I cried. I screamed at the top of my lungs and beat my hands against the steering wheel.And, at home, while petting Vanessa, I cried until there was nothing much left in me. When it was time to go to bed, I laid on the sofa (too tired to walk from the living room to my bedroom and crawl into bed), and, in spit of thinking all the grief and torment had been depleted, I cried myself to sleep.------------------------------------The Crown Jewels. Or, as they are more formally known, The Honours of Scotland. Clare and I--having lost her parents along the way--had walked through several areas of Edinburgh's Castle, finally arriving at the room where the Crown Jewels were displayed. A sign informed us to put our cameras away. Photography was not allowed. And, to make sure no one stole either the jewels or the chance to take a photograph, a guard stood firmly in place. Across the room from us, a guide explained to those who crowded around the glassed-in jewels that it had, at one time, sat upon the heads of regents from Mary I (1543), also known as Mary Queen of Scots, to Charles II (1651). (Now, I know what you are thinking right now. There is a photograph of the crown, so obviously Eva Marie took a photo in spite of being told not to. NOT SO! This is, honest to goodness, a photo I took of a postcard of the crown. I took it in the gift shop while Clare Campbell held it up. Don't believe me? Ask her. :))The Honours of Scotland are, for those of you who care to know such things, the oldest surviving set of crown jewels in the British Isles. For 111 years, they went missing until the future King George IV demanded that Walter Scott (who wrote Ivanhoe, and Rob Roy to name a few of his works) break down a wall where the treasure was expected to be (or hoped to be) hidden. Sure enough, the Honours were found in an oak chest. The news rang out, cheers were raised (along with the Royal Standard) and they've been on display since.There is more than just the crown, of course. The entire set is comprised of the crown, the sceptre, and the Sword of State. And, if you are wondering about their worth: somewhere between three and five billion pounds. No wonder there's a guard. After several minutes of oohing and aahing over the jewels (and other fine objects), Clare and I went into the gift shop where we played around the like queens we are (or at least we believe ourselves to be), giggling among the trinkets until we found ourselves ogling over the real jewelry locked behind a glass case. Clare spotted a garnet ring (her birthstone) she really liked while I fancied the matching earrings.After pointing and sharing our desire to "try these," one of the sales clerks went to the back to fetch them while another stood guard over us (pretending to "just be talking"). I didn't care. I was having the grandest of times. We were laughing, Clare and I. We were playing like children instead of grown women. We were touring a castle perched high in Edinburgh, Scotland, for pity's sake on a glorious, nearly cloudless, day in the middle of September. And, we had just seen the crown worn by Mary, Queen of Scots (not to mention the room where she gave birth to her son, James). And ... thirty minutes and two transactions later, Clare had a new ring and I had new earrings. I knew how low life could go ... but, right then, I wasn't sure life could get any sweeter. Additional photos from Edinburgh Castle

My brother would never return to our childhood home--the home of his adult life. I knew it. No one had to tell me; I knew it like I knew the love of my parents, by instinct. They never had to tell me in so many words, even though they did and often, but I always--by nature--knew it. Felt it. And now, I reconciled myself to the fact that my brother's last step out of the house on Dogwood Drive would be his last step out of the house on Dogwood Drive. He'd called out, "See you later, girl," to his cat, Vanessa. But he would not. Not until such a time when she walks across the Rainbow Bridge and meows until she finds him.On July 31, 2019, 64 years from the day our parents married, I walked into Candler Hospital around 10:00 a.m. to see Sam Thompson sitting in the lobby, waiting. Sam was the "friend I didn't know I had," as Van referred to her two years earlier when she'd helped him with visits to Savannah for chemo and then when she'd driven him back home after a 20-day stay in the hospital. (I had returned to Florida, but was about to return.)Sam had, of course, come to see her "buddy," and, as always, they had a pleasant visit. So the day started well ... but ...When we entered Van's room, he told us that, about a half hour earlier, a CT scan had been ordered. After Sam's visit, and as the hours drug by and still no scan, I promised him I wouldn't leave for home until afterward, in case the test revealed something we had to deal with immediately. The doctors had suggested a possible pulmonary embolism (PE), a clot blocking a blood vessel or artery the lungs. Van took the possibility in such stride, I knew he had no idea the seriousness of the situation. And so I stayed ... and stayed ... "Dr. G" returned, this time wearing new but still-remarkable earrings. "Your earrings," I said to her, "look like they came from Israel." Turns out they did ... she has a home there, she told me, and after a conversation about the Holy Land, I felt that I had a new friend.The transport team came to get Van, finally, at 8:30 p.m., which was 12 hours since I'd left our home earlier that day. Eleven hours since it had been ordered. I followed behind, up and down halls, in elevators, through sliding glass doors. After he'd been rolled into the lab, I remained in the white but austere hallway, alone, staring out the sliding glass doors leading to the dark outside. How could a moment, I wondered, seem so bright within and so dark without? Yet, hovering within the white walls and floors and hallways was the possibility of the worse kind of news while outside, in the dark, was the way home. The irony wrapped around me like the chilling temp within. I called Aunt Janice on the way home and gave her the update and expressing my fatigue. "Darlin'," she said, "you know your room is right here. Always open for you." For many of the days driving home, I stopped somewhere, picked up dinner, and took my reprieve by dining with her. Talking to her. Laughing ... as only she could make me do. But, as I told her, I needed to return to the house. "I need to do the little things I'm doing when I get there ... for my own sanity..." Things like playing with the cat, or going through closets and drawers I knew Van would never go through again. Finding old photographs (like the one above) and memories I wished we could capture, just one more time. Moments, we'd never have again.-------------------------------We stepped out of the hotel in Edinburgh and onto the energy and flutter of the streets, crossing one then another, horns honking around us, people calling out in different languages, the clomping and shuffling of feet making their own music, until Edinburgh Castle came into view. I had heard of it, of course, and seen it in photographs, but I'd never imagined the enormity of it. How it stands over the city like a guard--an old, elaborate guard. We took our time walking to it--Clare, her mother and father (Diane and David) and I--stopping within the splendor of the West Princes Street Gardens, which, at one time had been Nor'Loch--a body of stinky water used as a form of defense for the castle perched on Castle Rock (a volcanic rock). But, in the early 1800s, death gave way to life; the water was drained and gardens installed. Later in the 1800s, a local gunmaker, Mr. Daniel Ross, went to London for The Great Exhibition. There, he saw a stunning cast-iron fountain created by French artist, Jean-Baptiste Jules Klagmann. When he returned to Scotland, he purchased the 122-piece structure depicting mermaids and cherubs, walrus and lions, and, atop, four females (representing science, poetry, arts, and industry). All put back together, the structure is truly a gift. Sadly, Mr. Ross died before seeing it's restructuring and subsequent unveiling.As ominous clouds gathered over the city, a cooling breeze drifted through the gardens, sending sprays of water toward us, but not enough to stop Clare and me from taking the obligatory photos (I think, at this point, David and Diane were more captivated by the flowers). After milling through the gardens for a while, we headed upward toward the castle. To say the walk was a "stretch" is putting it mildly, but the weather and the scenes of Edinburgh all around made for a most pleasant experience. We craned our necks as we drew closer to the castle, the once-upon-a-time home to Mary, Queen of Scots and the birthplace of her son, James VI & I. I delighted in the walking through of tunnels--that sense of light to dark to light again--the ancient stone streets beneath our feet, the old buildings, with their whitewashed-trimmed windows, that I imagined had houses a thousand souls over the years. The bustle around us grew as tour busses screeched to a stop near the base of the castle, spilling Chinese cargo near staircases that would lead us all up, Up, UP. Clare and I paused long enough to let them walk ahead of us, me joking that I was certain not a single person was left in all of China. And then we entered the castle, but not before stopping inside a little store for, of all things, Scotland's finest Walker's shortbread, which we would also call "lunch."Along with more heads and arms and legs and feet than I could ever count, we walked along the esplanade, then through the entryway, past statues of "The Bruce" (Robert I) and William Wallace (think: Braveheart), who guard the arched entrance to the Gatehouse. After passing through the formidable Portcullis Gate, we caught up with Diane and David near Argyle Battery, a six-gun battery from the early 1700s (with the cannons being in position since the early 1800s). As soon as we ascended the stone steps, I gasped, turned to look at Clare and said, "You have to see this!" Such views of the city of Edinburgh, you cannot imagine without being there. Even my photos (or anyone's), I think, do not do it justice. Elation swirled through me! I felt that I had somehow made it to the top of the world. A one-time place of defense now provided a view toward eternity.Additional Photos (in no particular order):Another view from the Argyle Battery The Ross Fountain with Edinburgh Castle (it looks close ... it's NOT. There is quite a hike involved!) A view within the West Princes Street Gardens A Celtic Cross welcomes us to the gardens Diane Campbell and me at one of the Edinburgh Castle cannons More of the Ross Fountain Art & Poetry (atop the Ross Fountain)

Two days after his admission back into Candler, I received an early-morning call from my brother telling me he was having trouble breathing (I drove the one-to-one-and-a-half-to-sometimes-two-hour drive to Savannah twice a day, so I was a fair distance away). The night before, after coming back to our childhood home, I began a frantic cleaning ritual that would continue throughout the following weeks. I started with his room, pulling furniture away from the walls, wiping down baseboards, dusting furniture, sweeping and mopping the hardwood floor. Now, I can tell you that this was my way of coping with what I could not control. Then, I only saw it as doing my sisterly duty, preparing his room for what I believed would be his return home the following afternoon. Because of my hard work, I had slept in a little; when the call came, I should have been on the road already. I told him I'd be there as quickly as I could, then beat myself up on the way to Savannah for having taken that little bit of time for myself. To sleep in an extra half hour. Why would I do that? Wouldn't I have plenty of time when this was all over? After arriving at Candler, a nurse informed me that Van's O2 had dropped to 86 (typically, you want to see oxygen at somewhere between 96 - 100). After administering oxygen, the number returned to normal, but I suspected that staying on oxygen would now be the norm. She also told me that they had ordered a chest X-ray and an EKG but before those would happen they would take him downstairs to have his J-tube replaced. I had barely gotten into his room good and we'd said our good mornings before the gurney pushed through the door and he was taken downstairs."Every day," I wrote in my journal as I waited, "is a question mark ... until it is a period."By the end of that day it was evident that my brother was not going home. His heart rate had elevated, the x-ray showed fluid on his lungs and, as I observed in my journal, "he just seems to be getting weaker." So, I drove home alone. And, wouldn't you know it, I slipped into a left land that forced me to take a wrong turn. I ended up driving through a little blink in the road, Guyton. Of course, I knew how to get back home from Guyton--I'd grown up in this area, I knew these roads like the back of my hand--but it was certainly the long way around the block. Still, the drive was lovely. Peaceful. And it gave me plenty of time to think. Finally, I made it home, washed two loads of clothes, then dusted the living room. My intent was to also vac and mop as well, but exhaustion had come to roost. The next day, following the now-familiar whoosh of the door's opening, a new hospitalist stepped into Room 689. From the moment she dipped her hands into her lab coat pockets and introduced herself (we learned later that she was affectionately called "Dr. Gee"), I felt a rapport with her. Something about her that I couldn't quite put my finger on ... to be more specific, it was something about her jewelry. Her earrings. I also appreciated her "let's not beat around the bush" attitude. "This will now be the way of it," she told us. "One thing after another. Mr. Purvis, your lungs will continue to fill with fluid and we will drain them and they will fill again and we will drain them again. And then one thing after the other with shut down." My brother nodded. He didn't have to like the message, but he liked the messenger as much as I, and he also understood what she was saying. Death, which had been swooping and hovering around us, drew closer. My brother's race, as the Apostle Paul, had so eloquently said it, was coming to an end; the finish line tape waved in the near distance. We could almost hear the cheers of a crowd of angels. We could almost taste the wine from the victory cup."You wouldn't happen to have a playbook, would you?" I asked her, hoping to return a ray of light back into the room. She returned my smile, leaned her head crowned with dark curls to one side, and quipped, "Wouldn't that be nice?" Later, I received a call from my cousin Nancy who'd always had a particularly special relationship with Van. She had gone by to see him, she told me, and was sorry to have missed me. "I'm heartbroken at his condition," she told me. "And I wish there was something I could do to help or something I could say to change this.""You get me," I told her. "And you understand that Van is driving this bus. No one else. Just Van and God."--------We had to get up early. Very early. We--Clare, her mum, dad, and I--were catching a flight from Belfast, Northern Ireland to Edinburgh, Scotland and, in flight, we would see the sun come up. That's how early it was. We made it to the Belfast airport in that gray cloak of darkness that comes as dawn nears, and, by some stroke of luck, made it through security, Clare most of all. She was the one we worried about, her having that dangerous-looking blow dryer in her carry-on. The rest of us carried little to nothing, so Diane (Clare's mum) and I were surprised when we were practically frisked before being allowed near the gates.In flight, we were served a light breakfast with a cup of hot tea, which astonished me seeing as we'd only be in the air about 30 to 45 minutes. But the Irish are efficient, I'll give them that. Better though, was that I had the window seat and experienced the splendor of the sun coming up from beneath the clouds, which gave them the appearance of liquid gold spilled on top of whipped marshmallows. As soon as we landed and departed the plane, I wanted to pinch myself. I was in Scotland. Scotland. It wasn't enough that I had visited the land of my Irish forefathers and foremothers, now I was in Scotland, also the land of my forefathers and foremothers. And (drum roll here), I was in the "homeland" of , who I'd studied and written about in The Final Race. Tomorrow, we planned a trip to the Eric Liddell Centre, but for now, our focus was to get to our hotel. Getting through the airport only took a few minutes (we'd only brought carry-on luggage), and then we made it to the Edinburgh Trams, bought our tickets, climbed aboard and headed into the heart of the city's "newtown." My eyes couldn't take it in fast enough or well enough. The medieval gray structures that spoke of another era, the blur of faces heading to work or to their own vacation destinations, and the vibrancy of a city coming awake after the end of a long autumn's night. When we came to our stop, the four of us hopped off as if we did this every Monday and Thursday, then walked along a sidewalk lined by shops and cafes with colorful awnings. Upper windows boasted flower boxes bursting in bloom and fragrance. We swam through a crowd like salmon until we found . As traffic cantered past us we stepped into a diagonal crosswalk then entered the tasteful opulence of the hotel's lobby. The air outside was crisp and inviting; inside we were met by charm and warmth. The painted walls were nearly hidden by portraits and framed photos of famous Scots. I glanced around as Clare gave our information to the receptionist whose lilt tickled my ear, and then I let out a little cheer. As "fate" would have it, I stood directly below an impressive black and white of Eric Liddell (also known as ) crossing the finish line, his head back, his chest bowed. Our rooms were not ready (nor would they be until later in the afternoon), but the hotel agreed to store our luggage until later. Feeling a bit hungry (something I cannot explain seeing as we'd had breakfast on the plane) and in need of a cup of coffee or tea, we all decided that before descending into the world called Edinburgh, we would have a bite to eat. Inviting aromas from the hotel's restaurant drew us like pups to a bowl of milk, so we followed our noses past additional portraits of Scots until we found the restaurant, which was beyond breathtaking with its tufted leather seats, pressed tin ceilings, and fat chandeliers dripping prisms of light that reflected brilliantly off the patina of the furnishings. I wanted to drink it all in for as long as I could. As my eyes scanned the length of the room, and the world beyond the windows, I wanted time to stop so I could bury myself in the moment. I also wanted to hurry up and get outside and find my way to the most prominent of all the landmarks in Edinburgh--it's castle. And, even though this day had only just begun, truly, I wanted it to never end, because right here, right now, there were no question marks. There were no periods. There were only ellipses ... and I intended to dance between each one of the dots. Additional Photos: Clare, her mum Diane, and her father (on the other side of the aisle) in flight to Edinburgh. After landing and making our way through the airport, we stopped long enough to pose with the U and R of "Edinburgh." The opulent restaurant at The Angels Share Hotel in Edinburgh.

I couldn't quite understand what I was happening right in front of me. Only the day before, my brother had seemed better. Stronger. Having a "good day." That morning, in spite of his J-tube balloon having burst, which would lead us to having to return to the hospital, he was stronger than even the day before. But on the way to the hospital, with my dear friend Carla in the backseat, my brother riding shotgun, and me driving as safely but as quickly as I could, he floundered. The entire spirit of him, like that J-tube balloon, deflated. By the time we got through the emergency room and registration, he could hardly hold himself up. As he leaned forward in the wheelchair, I rubbed his back, the bones of his spine and ribs forming sharp ridges and currents. I knew by the stroke of his breath that this was a balm for him; not only did it feel heavenly, but it provided human touch. And, more so than that, it was the touch of his sister who loved him dearly and wanted him to know the comfort.Finally he was admitted to Room 689, his fourth room on the 6th floor in two months. While the nursing staff worked to get him settled, Carla and I went out to the car to retrieve his luggage. As we walked along the long, narrow hallway leading to the parking garage, we happened upon Dr. Barnes, Van's admitting physician. He recognized me and said, "Oh, good. You made it.""Yes," I told him. "Van's upstairs now getting settled in while we head out to the car to get his luggage."Dr. Barnes---handsome with gentle eyes and a close-cut beard---slid his hands into his lab coat pockets and sighed. Both Van and I---having met Dr. Barnes in previous visits to Candler---liked the good doctor a lot. He's the kind of physician who sits down. Chats about life in general (How to find the best food joints, etc.) before getting to the difficult stuff. You may have just met him, but you feel like you've known him your whole life, or that he's known you. "You know," he said, "there is not a doctor on our team who doesn't love your brother." Tears burned my eyes and I blinked them back. "I cannot tell you how much that means to me." "What amazes us most," he continued, "is his countenance in the face of death.""That's his faith," I told him. "Van knows that this is not the end. He's just traveling through."Dr. Barnes nodded. "Well," he said, "I'll see him upstairs shortly."Minutes later, Carla and I returned to Room 689 with Van's luggage in hand. As I pushed open the door, I heard my brother say, "DNR."The admitting nurse stood nearby with her fingers on the keyboard of her carted laptop. "Are you sure?" she asked. She looked from my brother, to me, and then over to the floor's charge nurse, a pretty young woman with all of life ahead of her and all of death at her feet. I stepped around the bed, my heart hammering as my breath slowed. I blinked, fully aware of the magnitude of moment. Fully aware of what my brother was saying. What he was doing. "DNR," he repeated. "Do. Not. Resuscitate," he added, his voice strong, in case they thought he didn't understand the finality of the decision. A few hours later, as Carla and I made our way back along the dark, narrow, and interminable roads from Savannah to Sylvania, I whispered, "I wasn't prepared to hear him request the DNR.""I wondered how you felt about it," Carla said."I feel like he's taking control," I returned, "and he's taking it the best way he knows how."-------------After such an adventurous outing on Tuesday, Clare and I decided to sleep in on Wednesday. Take life a little easier. We woke at our own leisure, had our tea, our showers, and then ambled into Clare's office to write, each of us working on our current manuscripts. A few hours later, we slipped into our shoes and headed for Belfast's city "centre." We parked at Victoria Square Shopping Center---a mall. This, of course, is right up my proverbial alley. There was a new bounce in my step; I could feel my face growing brighter. One day, I fear, I will have to enter a program. "Hello, my name is Eva Marie. I am a shopaholic." The shopping center (American spelling now) has over 70 international and national shops and restaurants. Because it was nearing noon or was, perhaps, a little after, I suggested to Clare that we begin with lunch. The first restaurant we came to was an Applebee's, of all things. But a juicy burger sounded pretty good to me, so we went inside. Afterward, we went up to for a 360-degree view of Belfast. Clare pointed out the direction we would head next--city hall--an impressive and imposing Renaissance-influenced building that boasts statues of older, huskier Queen Victoria (front and center, of course), Robert McMordie, Sir Edward James Harland, as well as a most-astounding tribute to the over 1,500 who lost their lives on the Titanic, which was constructed in Belfast harbor before making its tragic trip toward America. After enjoying the beauty of the day and the buildings, we walked past the Game of Thrones stained glass window, then back to Victoria Square and the car, and then drove to C. S. Lewis Square, where I peered into "the wardrobe," wondering what adventures may lay on the other side. Could I see Narnia if I looked hard enough? C. S. Lewis---a son of Belfast---is, of course, an icon of modern writers, especially the Christian writer. As we walked the gardened pathways and observed the various works of art dedicated to The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, which is part of Lewis's highly-read Chronicles of Narnia series, I pondered what it must be like to have created such characters---Aslan, the White Witch, Mr. Tumnus, Mr & Mrs Beaver (to name a few)---so beloved that, years after dying, someone is commissioned to create statues to their likeness. Their image. This is legacy, I think. This is living beyond the boundaries of the number of your sighs. Additional Photos: Belfast City Center The Glass of Thrones in downtown Belfast, Northern IrelandAnother statue in front of the Belfast City Hall building. An up close and personal look at the statue of Queen Victoria. A visitor reads the inscription on one of the statues at city hall. A gentle welcome to the C S Lewis Square. Statue of Aslan from The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis

The panic attacks usually came at about three in the morning. Mine; not his. My brother's stress over dying came in short spurts during daylight hours. I had taught him how to breathe so as not to hyperventilate and often had to remind myself when they came in the middle of the night, when sleep had finally come as an old friend to rock me in hours with nothing to do. Nothing to clean up. No death to watch eat away my baby brother. No trips to Savannah to make. No calls to return. No visiting medical staff to welcome inside his home, the home we had grown up in. When panic woke me from my slumber, it came in nightly whispers: What are you going to do with all this when he is gone? How are you going to get through it all? There are over sixty years worth of "stuff" that has been saved and put away to deal with. The attic is full. The garage is full. Every closet and every drawer ... full. And it is up to you to do it all.My breath came in gasps, my eyes wide, staring up at the bedroom ceiling. Oh, God ... Oh, God ... Oh, God ... Then, one night my spirit heard the words I needed to sustain me: No one is saying you have to do this in a weekend. Or even a week. Or a month. Take a year if you want. Right now, you only need to focus on the moment. The day. No more than that. And, with that, I returned to my sleep. Until the early morning of July 27--a Saturday. The day after we'd gone to Savannah and seen our aunt and cousin at the cancer center. The panic attack woke me at 3:00, as it had decided was our best time together. And, as the devil's words taunted me, I returned with what God had whispered to my heart: No. I don't have to do this in a weekend. I'll be fine. I returned to sleep and, unknowingly, rolled dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Then, at 4:15, Van knocked on the closed door and called my name, which sent me tumbling to the hard wood of the floor. I popped up just as quickly. "What? What?" I asked, terrified as I swung the door open to see him standing there, calmly holding the tube of the J-tube to his abdomen. "The balloon of my J-tube burst," he said. "I'm literally holding it in."I blinked, trying to focus. "Okay," I said, breathless. "Let's see what we can do." Then, over the next several minutes, I used gauze and medical tape to secure the tube to his body. At one point I looked up at him and teased, "I hope you know it's 4:30 on a Saturday morning.""I know," he quipped back."And I guess you know that Dr. Odom's office won't be open today.""Yep.""I suppose," I said, now righting myself to collect the tools of our operation, "you couldn't have done this on a Tuesday at 2."We both laughed. I told him I would call the doctor's office at 7 and that, until then, we should try to get some sleep, which is exactly what we did. Later, shortly after my early-morning call to the answering service, a return call came from Dr. Odom's associate, Dr. Barnes, who said we needed to get Van back to the hospital in Savannah, but first he needed to secure a bed for him. That he would call me back. I called my friend Carla who said she wanted to go with us to Candler so I wouldn't be alone on the drive back if they admitted him, which we both thought they would. Meanwhile, as I waited for the call back from Dr. Barnes, I cleaned out the kitchen pantry, my brother sitting a few feet away in the living room, commenting on "how much stuff had accumulated over the years" and "just throw that out ... and that ..." I couldn't help but notice as we chatted that he actually looked healthier. Afterward, I cleaned myself up, told Van I was going to Carla's to pick her up and that we would stop and get gas before returning home. "Go get yourself something to eat," he said. He was always worried that I was not eating enough ... mainly because I wasn't, so I told him I would. I had put a load of clothes in the wash earlier, so before leaving, I transferred it to the dryer, then left to pick up Carla. We gassed up the car, stopped for lunch, then went back to the house to find Van ready to go. "Dr. Barnes called," he said. "They have a room for me." His suitcase rested near the door. "Then, let's go," I said. It was, by now, mid-afternoon and I had completed a full day's work. But now, we needed to do this one more thing. Folding the laundry, I decided would wait until I returned.As we stepped out of the door, my brother called out to his cat, Vanessa. "See you later, girl!" he said, as though he would be back that evening ... or within a few days ... or, maybe, like these last few trips to the hospital, within a week. But he would not.He would never set foot in his home again.-----------From the moment Clare and I began planning my trip to her country, I had one goal: to walk across the "I've lived an hour from the bridge my whole life," Clare told me, "and I've never had a desire to go there and cross over it." "But you'll do it for me, right?" I said, as though she actually had a choice.And so we arrived--Clare, her mother Diane, and I. What we didn't know was that to get from the parking area to the bridge was quite the hike. Not just from here to there, but UP and DOWN limestone stairs, around a bend here, around a bend there, all the while the Atlantic Ocean whipping and roaring below and beside us as wispy clouds sailed overhead in an exceptionally blue sky. At some point, we lost Diane who--spying a bench--said, "I'll wait for you here." Clare and I continued on the path, dotted with wildflowers and, occasionally cattle (what?) grazing on the hillside. We kept time with the crowd headed toward the bridge, saying hello to those returning, their hair wind-swept, their cheeks ruddy, their smiles broad.At one point, Clare (clearly nervous) reminded me that she may or may not actually cross the bridge. She would go as far as the bridge, yes, but she may not cross it. "Oh," I said, "but you walked along the dangerous coastline of the Cliffs of Moher, remember? And they had warnings along the way of how many people had fallen off and died. Do you see that here?""No," she said, pointing to our right. "But I do see defibrillators!" Well, by golly ... she was right. Finally, after descending a long staircase, we arrived at the bridge. Only 8 were allowed across at a time, so as we waited our turn, Clare mumbled behind me while I reminded myself--now faced with the sheer drop from land to ocean---that this had been my idea. As it turned out, I was the first of our group. With Clare behind me (I dared her to back out!) I pulled my phone from my the back pocket of my jeans so that when I reached the other side, I could easily take a photo of her. What I didn't realize was how much I needed the hand that held the phone to cross over. One must hold on to the ropes and pull oneself along ... but I now had only one free hand. And, with every person who stepped onto the bridge, I was rocked much harder than I had anticipated. I now had two goals: NOT to drop my phone into the Atlantic (it was brand new!) and to cross the bridge with my sanity intact. Finally, with my foot on stable ground, I was able to turn and snap a photo of Clare, who smiled broadly, clearly having the time of her life. I'm not sure who was more proud--her or me! If we thought the crossing was the hard part, we were sadly mistaken. Now we had to climb UP additional stairs, followed by rocky natural steps to get to the verdant plateau of landsitting atop wide-mouthed caves that look out over the water to where Rathlin Island juts out to sea and, on a clear day, one can see the border islands of Scotland. And then, when we had made it, I stopped to stare out in wonder. I had reached, I believe, the pinnacle of the world. In my heart, I was Maria running along the hillside of the Alps, twirling and singing, awestruck. Clare and I walked as far as the border ropes allowed, then removed our jackets and sat in the greenest grass I'd ever seen. We could hardly speak, not because we were breathlessfrom our adventure, but because God's brushstrokes had stolen any possible words we could have adequately spoken. In spite of the fact that others were calling out around us, my focus was solely on the crashing of the waves below us, the call of the birds above us ... and the greatest sense that my brother had somehow hitched a ride to take in a view the closest to heaven I was yet to see and he had already witnessed. And that, while Clare sat on one side of me, he sat on the other, waiting for me to understand the full glory of that knowledge."Oh, Buddy," I whispered into the wind. "Look at this . . .""Just you wait," he whispered back. "Just you wait . . ."Additional Photos: Looking out to the expanse of the shoreline and the Atlantic. If you note the very dark areas at the water, these are the mouths to the caves. I could have stood here forever! This was taken near the parking area. I found the little island across the way quite fascinating. You'll see it in several of my photos. Clare took this shot of me enjoying the moment!Note the beautiful wildflowers. Clare takes a moment to enjoy the beauty.A view down and out into the mighty Atlantic. My turn! On the way back across, Clare and I were the only two on the bridge, so we were able to get a shot of me on the now non-frightening bridge!

My brother was home. After three trips to the hospital for week-plus-long stays and a couple for outpatient procedures dealing with his J-tube (a jejuostomy tube is a soft, plastic tube that is placed through the abdomen and into the small intestine for the purpose of feeding the patient when the patient cannot eat by mouth), and several trips to chemo on Wednesdays (5 hours) and then back again on Friday to remove the pump ... we were home. And, miracle of miracles, he had a couple of days when he felt pretty well. "I'm feeling so good," he said one morning as I was heading out of the living room, "I may try to strip the floor in the hallway."I turned quickly. "Van, you need to be careful."He burst out laughing, a sound that always warmed my heart. "You must think I've lost my mind," he quipped. "I feel so good, I may try to water a plant."Oh, okay ... So the cancer hadn't eaten away at his unique humor.And so for about two days all seemed well. For a minute, he stopped vomiting. And then ... the vomiting began again and it seemed to me that with every hour of every day, he became thinner. Tireder. Sicker. It seems to me, I wrote in my journal, that he has thrown up his entire body. Friends and family dropped by and he attempted to exchange a few words, but I could see the effort it took. My daughter, Ashley, came for a visit and he perked up and truly enjoyed the visit. And then came that Friday. He insisted that morning that I "go to town" to have coffee with friends (and angels) Carla and Jo Beth. It felt good, talking and laughing about something other than cancer. But then I returned home in time for another trip to Savannah to remove the pump. In the short time I'd been gone--an hour? Two? he had grown so incredibly weak, my whole heart hurt to watch him shuffle from one room to the next, one chair to the other. Off to Savannah we went. He wore pajama bottoms and a tee shirt with a flannel long-sleeved shirt over that in spite of temperatures that soared near 100. Then he threw a hat over his head and shuffled to the car. The vomiting continued in the car (still thanking God for red Solo cups). A little over an hour later, I drove into the semi-circular drive in front of the cancer center and let him out, watching briefly as he shuffled to to door. I then drove to the parking lot, parked the car, and walked toward the building. Hearing someone call my name I looked up to see my cousin Carla (a nurse from NY state), Aunt Janice's daughter. We hugged as she told me that they were there for her mother's chemo infusion."I just dropped Van off," I said. "Did you see him?""We did," Carla said, her voice dropping. "Mama is very upset right now."I found Aunt Janice standing outside the doors of the cancer center. She looked so pretty with her silver-white hair and she wore a pair of slacks topped with pink and white oxford shirt that felt soft to the touch as I gave her a hug. "Darlin'," she said. "I saw this old man walking toward me and then he said, 'Hey, there' and I realized it was my sweet nephew. I'm just devastated."I pressed my lips together. "Aunt Janice, I don't think he can make it much longer.""No," she agreed. "Carla just said she'd be surprised if he makes it through August.""Me, too," I admitted. "But we just take it one day at a time.""That's all we can do."I gave her a hug and said I needed to get inside but that I would call her in a day or two. She hugged me back.Unbeknownst to either of us, this would be our last hug. The last time I would ever feel her arms around me. Mine around her.The last time I would see her alive.~~~~~~After a good night's sleep, I woke in Clare's home to the aroma of hot tea and buttered toast. I wasn't sure who had made it to the land of the living before me, but--after a hot shower and getting dressed and ready--I entered Diane Campbell's sunshiny kitchen, made myself a cuppa and a slice of toast slathered in butter and jam, and joined Diane and Clare in the living room. For a moment, my jaw dropped--just the view of the Belfast Lough (with Holywood (pronounced Hollywood) beyond it) and the County Down Hills from their picture window was enough to take my breath away. "Gracious, you get to see this every day?"Our plan for the day was somewhat singular--Northern Ireland's coastline . . . and one of the biggest reasons for my trip: I was going to cross the (and I was going to, if necessary, drag Clare across it with me!)!The northern shoreline of Ireland must be seen . . . and even from a car shooting down roads not big enough for two cars--stone fences lining one side and the ocean crashing into the shore on the other. A million times I wanted to scream "STOP THE CAR!" but I managed to keep myself semi-quiet in the backseat. Well, except when I saw sheep grazing along the hillsides. Sheep! Clare, Diane, and I would call. We stopped several times, Clare pointing out places made famous by Game of Thrones. I walked along the sandy coast, snapping shots, wondering how anything could be more beautiful than what I was experiencing right then, at that moment. And yet, with each stop, as the temperature dropped cooler, the world became more brilliant. More stunning. More breathtaking. Blue skies were more azure.Grasslands more emerald. White clouds spread their wings like angels flying high among the heavens. Limestone jutted from the earth to form fortress walls, nature's way of protection. And the sheep--those blessed sheep--grazed as if there were no cares bearing down on their shoulders, much less those of the two-legged. I felt myself breathing ... breathing ... breathing. My heart pounding in anticipation. Here I was, a month to the day after my greatest heartbreak, releasing my brother to the arms of Jesus, driving along the Northern Ireland coastline with Clare and Diane, all three heading to the crest of the world.ADDITIONAL PHOTOS

As children, my brother and I (along with every kid in the neighborhood) played outside from the time we woke up until the street lights flickered on. Even as little children, because our parents didn't worry; no parent worried. We were safe. Free to run and play and frolic. We hopped on our bikes and trikes and took off for wherever our wobbly little legs could take us. We were safe. The worst thing that could happen during the course of the day was a fall resulting in a bruised or scraped knee. Or palm . . . which was the most painful.Even the winter months couldn't stop us. We merely bundled up. Came in after we could no longer feel our feet and, once they thawed out, we pulled on a drier pair of socks, slipped into our boots, and away we went. Days of snow--yes, it snows in Georgia--were non-school days, full of adventures. We made snowmen, trekked up one street and down the other. We gathered our friends as we went along, battled in snowball fights . . . laughing and giggling, blowing thick clouds from our warm breaths into the cold air. Occasionally, mothers beckoned us inside for mugs of hot chocolate, not once afraid of where we were or what we were drinking. We were safe. Every day was for living; dying never entered our minds. But then . . . childhood was over and we were adults who eventually swam in the murky water of middle age. Safety became less sure as death diagnoses stared us in the face. We now had property to go through and financials to settle and legal papers to sign and a funeral to plan. And he did . . . right down to the song he wanted sung by a local men's singing group. He chose the casket he wanted to be buried in, the wood reminding him of his childhood bedroom set. He picked out the guestbook---the one with the big-mouthed bass because "you know I love to fish"---and the thank you cards I would inevitably fill out. He asked me to please speak at the funeral. "But only if you can," he said. "If this beats you up too bad, and you can't, I'll understand." I assured him I would speak, beat up or not. "You know . . . " he said one day as we drove to another round of chemo, "I always knew I would die." He struggled for the next moment, the pain slicing its way through his declining body. "I just . . ." he said finally, "never expected to die like this."--------------------Clare and I left the Cliffs of Moher, drove up the Wild Atlantic Way, and cruised into Northern Ireland without incident. Remarkably, we didn't get lost, although we did stop once to call Clare's brother, Alistair, to make sure we were headed in the right direction. Timing was everything; we were meeting Clare's brother and their parents at ("we should be there around") 5:00 p.m. at a place called Florence Court, an 18th century estate located near Enniskillen, County Fermanagh, which Clare was quite excited about showing me. Along the way, we drove through quaint villages, our conversation set to nonstop. One would never know she was young enough to be my youngest child . . . or that I am factually older than her parents . . . we were and are bound by a commonality I cannot begin to describe. We think a lot alike. We are both writers. Both Christians who take faith seriously. Both women with goals and plans toward those goals (although one of us has more time, I think, to see those goals to completion). As we drew closer to the five-o'clock hour, I grew nervous that Florence Court and its tourable mansion would not be open. But a sign as we pulled into the lush grounds assured us that it was, in fact, open until 7:30 p.m. Well, the sign said it, but apparently the staff had not read the sign---the placed was locked up tight. Undaunted by rules, Clare and I hiked along lovely trails through tranquil woods until we reached the mansion hoping that, surely, someone would be about.No one was. Here we were, face-to-face with an impressive 18th century house bowing its chest with its colonnade arms stretched wide, 14 acres of woodland behind us . . . and we were alone.But unafraid.We traipsed back to the parking area where, according to a text from Alistair, the family waited for us in the walled garden, located just beyond a stone, ivy-covered "cottage." As soon as we entered through the foliage covered "gate," Alistair was there, greeting his sister with a hug and me with a handshake. I took a photo of them, so chummy . . . and for a moment--but only a moment---my heart ached at what I had lost, then rejoiced at what they still had. A bond. An unmistakable bond that only siblings can share, if they will. I met Diane, Clare's mother, and David, her father who soon walked off to stroll between the rows of the English garden. Tranquility blossomed here and we, too, walked through it, stopping here and there for a photo. "My husband would love this," I said, knowing that he would . . . but that he would never dare take such a trip to witness and enjoy it. And then we came to the hanging gardens and I thought, "I could walk through this and come out on the other side of forever." Magic swirled around me. I pictured tiny fairies (or faes, since I was in Ireland) flitting between the leaves and draping branches. They danced on the air, brisk and inviting, turning to flick their wings at me, asking me to join them.A part of me wanted to journey along. Another part wanted to stay right where I was. Perhaps for always, never to leave."Take me with you," I had begged my brother one afternoon as we discussed his departure from this life to the next, and he had chuckled.Yet, here I stood, unable to follow after him, not just yet. Here I stood in Ireland with my friend and her family surrounded by such earthly beauty, yet knowing it compared little to what my brother now beheld. Soon enough it was time to leave. We would drive into town where we would eat pizza, then drive on to Belfast, to Clare's home.And then tomorrow, ah tomorrow! . . . the Carrick-a-Rede bridge! Additional Photos:

"What's your favorite song?" I asked my brother. "Favorite of all time?"" by Sniff 'n' the Tears," he answered. I admitted I'd never heard it. A few days later, we drove toward Savannah for another round of chemo. I kept both hands at 10 and 2, my eyes on the monotonous road that stretched between farmland and the occasional interruption of a small Southern town, while one of my brother's shaky hands held the ever-present red Solo cup, ready to catch whatever his body rejected and the other held a handkerchief. His head lay against the headrest and his eyes, their lids bulging and nearly translucent, stayed closed; weakness kept him from doing much else. I'd tuned the car's radio to Sirius XM "70s on 7," one of his favorites. Periodically, I asked him if he was okay and periodically he answered, "I'm all right." Mostly, I let him sleep. Or, I stayed quiet, hoping he slept.One of the songs ended and another started up. Suddenly, Van's arm raised up and his finger pointed toward the dashboard. I looked at him. His eyes were still closed, his head still back, and his hands still gripped the necessary items for incessant vomiting. But there was something he wanted me to see. I looked at the radio display.Driver's Seat * Sniff 'n' the Tears"Ah," I said. And then I listened. And I knew that he, too, was listening. Remembering another time. A better time of riding in his old '68 Dodge truck with his buddies, listening to this same song played by WBBQ out of Augusta, Georgia. Laughing �� his entire life in front of him. And perhaps, as the song came to an end, he wondered why I'd wanted to know about his favorite song.-------------------------------------------------------------Clare and I sat in the Doolin B&B dining room and gazed out of the picture windows toward the Cliffs of Moher. After we ate breakfast, we would load the car and head over. I, for one, couldn't wait. The gentleman who had greeted us the night before brought in large plates of an authentic Irish breakfast, which included "white and black pudding." "This is for the lady named Clare like the county," he said, setting a plate in front of Clare. "And this is for the woman who thinks she's the mother of God." (See the last installment if you don't remember what this was about!)Clare and I laughed, the began to eat. I started with the "white pudding," which looked like a typical patty of sausage. "This is good," I said, after finishing it. "What is it exactly?"Clare answered, "Oatmeal, pork, and spices.""Oh. Well, it was good." I pointed to the darker of the two servings. "What about this?""Black pudding," she answered. "Essentially the same, but made from blood."I looked up sharply. "Are you serious?"She laughed. "Serious. It's good."I pushed the food from the center of my plate to the edge. "No, thank you."A little while later, we had packed, loaded the car, and then made our way to the Cliffs of Moher, one of Ireland's most famous landmarks.The large rock that greeted us also held words warning those who were about to walk along the edge of the cliffs. Beautiful, but essentially a memorial to those who had lost their lives there. Scary to think about, but a look beyond and I see a steady line of those who have arrived before us and ignored the reminder. I know me well enough to know that I'll be one of them. Not one to fall over, but one to go to the edge. It's simply in my nature.What can one possibly say about the cliffs that hasn't already been expressed? For nearly 9 miles, they rise like something out of a fairy tale. White gulls fly between the jutting rocky faces and cry out in the spray of the ocean's salty water. Lush spongy grass grows along their shoulders as waves crash against their bases to create a song only nature can compose. With the sun out and a decided chill in the air, we were beckoned to go where so many have already trod. Adventure awaited!Clare and I began the hike, stopping periodically to take a photo. Or to simply breathe in the beauty of it all. The majesty. The wonder. Energy grew within me as we continued, going farther than some, not as far as others. Continued warnings were posted, yet no one, including us, seemed to adhere to them. We defied death in the height of such living!After slipping through a few narrow passages--one that reminded me of the tablets Moses carried down the Sinai--we came upon a small herd of cattle. I stopped to pet one--a fairly large beast--his head full of thick white curls. When I stopped, he butted my hand with his wide nose and I laughed.And then the strangest thing happened. Limericks filled my mind--one after the other. "There once was a girl named Clare," I shouted into the wind. "Who went up to the cliffs on a dare ..." Clare joined in, adding a pantomime to my words. After several of these, I said, "Look at me! I've been in Ireland for only a few days and I'm speaking in limericks!"When we'd gone as far as we thought we should, we turned to head back, walking along a somewhat muddy path until we reached one of the passageways. This one we had to step over, which placed us high above the world. I stopped long enough to gaze out over the farmland, over the gravel path before us, along the jutting earth and the ocean that dipped over the edge of the earth. As far as my eyes could see . . . wonder. Breathtaking and inspiring. As far as my eyes could see . . .I stepped over the rocks and toward a narrow man-made staircase, Clare right behind me. We had to keep going. We had to stay on the winding path.We still had miles to go.Additional Photos: