To paraphrase Flann O'Brien, death is an inferior phenomenon at best, an insanitary abstraction in the backyard.
My mom was better than death: I may have mentioned this before, but she worked for decades as a social worker at Calvary Hospital in the Bronx (meaning she worked with patients with terminal diagnoses). As a vocation, a calling, she helped hundreds, I dunno, thousands of people and families confront The End, and she did it with humor, compassion, brains, and grace. Mom was also a mental health care volunteer for the Red Cross. After 9/11 she worked with victims' families, and was on hand at every annual commemoration, helping those suffering from the sort of wounds that don't show so obviously. And she worked with the families of (I think) all of your major modern air disasters in the NYC area. She had a bag packed all the time, right in her wardrobe -- she was always ready to answer the call.
Mom was fluent in Spanish and lived in Mexico and Spain. She was a fantastic cook and made the best omelets ever. She was funny, and curious about all sorts of ideas and theories. She went to all my Little League games. Her grandkids adored her. You needed her, and everyone seemed to, and she was there, and she made it better, because she was there.
She was a goddamn fantastic mom, and I am so very proud of her. Death can bite me.