Now, don’t get too excited. We’re just talking daydreams here – nothing terribly romantic but, still, life-changing. This is about a very “appropriate” and “mature” and “sensible” daydream. You’ll find the dream itself pretty tame; that it came true and was right there, under my nose, waiting for me with open arms – that’s the cool part.

[Author’s note: This actually happened about two weeks ago, but immediately thereafter our 2023 city budget was in peril, and I paused to co-author the piece called “There’s Still Hope, Green Bay.” It got lot of attention, and the budget was saved from decimation. I’ve caught my breath, and so now I share with you this unbelievable sequel to “The Garbage Can Caper.”}

I’ve ridden roller coasters only a few times in my life for the very practical reason that they scare the hell out of me. I get no thrills from terrifying climbs and death-defying falls. However, today I’ve been riding a roller coaster – from highs to lows all day – and guess what: I think it’s a pretty interesting story. So I’m going to tell it. If you don’t want to hear about the nutty ups and downs of this day, why, you just quit reading now.

I remember my mother worrying about going into the “Medicare donut hole.” I recall it had something to do with money, and the donut hole was a bad place to be, but I’ve always found Medicare far more confusing than should be necessary. I dismissed the donut hole as something I’d never have to deal with. After all, I’d never “been on medication” in my life. At age 64, healthy as a horse, a long-time cancer survivor and a recent total hip recipient now walking without pain, I saw Medicare as an annoyance, a necessary evil I’d now have to face. I dutifully researched my health insurance options prior to my sixty-fifth birthday. Lord knows, I never thought about the donut hole.

And then, last week, I woke up in the donut hole.