When I lived in Tucson AZ, my tiny grayhaired grandmother, whom I called Mom, came for a week-long vacation with a friend. They shared a room in one of the resort hotels up in the foothills. On the day I was to join them for dinner, Mom's friend stepped into her morning shower, and, with no warning whatsoever, died of a massive heart attack. Mom made all the arrangements to have her body shipped back to the family in Cincinnati, but I don't remember how many hours or days all of this took. What I do remember is that before she left, my grandmother still took me out to dinner.