"Death will never be pretty--its sights and smells too close and crude. And it will never come under our control: it gallops where we tiptoe, rips up our routines, burns our very breath with its heat and sting.
And yet while sorrow is certain, fear is not. "She had a very good death," a friend says of her mother, and I have an idea of what she means and don't hear it as a shrug of denial or contradiction.
I asked a doctor friend what makes the difference, once the battle is out of her hands.
"Fear," she said, "and regret. Take those away, and what's left is peace."
Source : "The Light of Death" by Nancy Gibbs