In the early seventies, when I lived in Tucson, Arizona, my tiny whitehaired grandmother, whom we grandchildren 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. I remember that before she left, Mom still took me out to dinner and spent most of our time together trying not to cry. I was in my twenties then and couldn't relate to any of this or even imagine how she must have felt, since the entire situation was so horribly surreal. I'm not young anymore and I still can't imagine how she felt, and the situation still seems horribly surreal. If I was reading this, I would think I made up the entire story, except the first two sentences.