The inspector's report came back with a laundry list of things "wrong" with our house -- basement windows and hidden leaks and tree roots making their way into the water line. I was suitably dismayed.

One of my oldest and dearest friends is a freelance writer and we talked together tonight -- a last catch-up before I go. He is working on a big story now for National Geographic -- a story about pediatric hospice. After 20 minutes of me rambling on about basement windows and tree roots, etc., the words "pediatric hospice" detonated into the echoing air of our empty house.

I do not care now about basement windows and tree roots, etc. It is good to remember that none of this bullshit matters.