It was to be our last flight back to Cleveland together. My wife was fast asleep in her seat next to the window as the plane’s wing lights winked in the inky darkness. She kept her cane propped next to her for when her arthritis flared up and made it hard to walk. She was too young to need a cane. I was reclined in my seat reading Proust trying to keep my mind off how nervous flying made me. It was ridiculous. Being afraid to fly, a man in my condition. We had had a good time in Tokyo, considering. A friend took us to some Buddhist temples and nice Zen gardens. We visited the best doctors in Japan and tried everything—medicine, meditation, herbal remedies, even contemplated surgery. But then the cancer became aggressive and I had to face facts. And it was time to go home—for the last time. About half an hour before our scheduled arrival time, the plane shuddered and I felt a dull pop within my ears. The overhead light flickered like a firefly. I assumed we were beginning our