My mom ran an adult foster care home. Half the population was elderly, half developmentally disabled. I liked helping out with the developmentally disabled folks. They were a handful, but they were basically enjoying life. But the elderly wing was mostly people warehoused and waiting to die. I remember happy moments, but I don't remember anybody who I'd call happy, and quite a lot of them were miserable.

There was one guy, an occasional escapee and reasonably physically healthy for his 80s, who had severe Alzheimer's. He just wanted to go home. All the time, that's what he wanted. I forget the details, but he didn't have a home anymore. Nobody came to visit him. We did our best for him, but what can you do with that?

We did our best for all of them. But I remember one evening over dinner where my mom and my brother and I were talking about getting our medical/legal paperwork in order. My mom said, "If I end up like that, just wheel me out to a field and leave me."

We couldn't, of course. But when her time came, we did move her to hospice as soon as there was no hope of recovery. She lived her life and bravely fought the end of it, but she didn't want to be kept around as a body, a shrine to her former self. A choice I deeply agree with.