Last spring Mom spent two nights in the hospital, then three weeks in a nursing home before we took her home for what would prove to be the last time. The day after we moved her home, the nurse from the hospice called to inquire whether Mom understood how sick she was; her caretakers were convinced she wasn’t showing the proper gravity or something. I assured Marilyn that Mom was well aware of her prognosis. Mom, an occasionally witty but never particularly cheerful person, was quite certain that she’d not survive if she let the illness defeat her spirit; she was, by insisting on relentless optimism, fighting on, even in her last days.
Cancer got Tug McGraw yesterday. Mom, who admired Tugger as a pitcher, would have mourned with me.