The New York Times
Published: May 12, 2012
WHEN my mother was dying of pancreatic cancer, I would often go with her to chemo, and we would usually talk about books. Discussing what we were reading was something we had done all our lives. But it wasn’t until one day during her second month of treatment that we realized that we had created a very peculiar book club: one with only two members.
Books gave us a way to talk about death that allowed her to choose how personal or abstract she wanted the conversations to be.
I privately dubbed our club “The End of Your Life Book Club,” not to remind myself that Mom was dying, but so I would remember that we all are — that you never know what book or conversation will be your last.
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