I always imagined you were at death's door and dying slowly in Dickensian poverty -- heroically, even a bit sadly, as a shut-in. I imagined how you'd look at the wall and a patch of sun, tracing the arc of the wall every day, over your books, your papers, how you would sit there with dry tears in your eyes. And how your wife would move slowly and quietly like a ghost in the background, offering you hope. But I found out yesterday you have been on vacation in Maui, and you've been feeling fine for about 5 years. So I feel cheated.
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