Jim Moran completed his life last night. His doctors said he had four months left last July, and he decided to take ten instead. He was entirely himself right up to the very last days, and died at home with people who love him. Metastasizing cancer is an awful way to end, but now I know how much grace and dignity can be imposed on even that much awfulness.  

I don't think Jim ever did use the walker they brought over for him a couple weeks ago, and I think he only agreed to the wheelchair that arrived last week because he could push it around with his eyes closed.  

We opened the windows one day last weekend when it was nice out, so he could hear the birds in the trees outside his second-story window. I thought I spotted him inching the chair towards the door. I told him I was sorry that the wheelchair couldn't take him outside. He didn't say anything for almost long enough that I wondered if he'd heard. But then he opened one eye a little, peered at me skeptically, and slowly closed it again.  

And then he said "What makes you think it won't take the stairs?"