"Why not 'Irish Eyes'?" I ask.

"It isn't Catholic enough for church. The Irish tenor is afraid to sing it without Monsignor's permission." Aunt Sally sighed.

There was an audible groan from those standing closest. It was one of the GrandMary's few wishes; she rarely asked for anything for herself. It seemed such a small thing too. But I knew no one was going to call Monsignor on it because it was also something she would have hated for us to do. We've got "Danny Boy," now leave it alone before Monsignor axes that one too. God love him.

"You should have just asked for forgiveness," says my mother. "Not permission."

"That's right," says Aunt Sally. "What are they going to tell us? That she can't have a funeral Mass at St. Ann's ever again?"

Two weeks earlier, my brother, Casey, had called and said, "You need to go see her. Get on a plane now. I have a frequent flyer ticket. Use it."

I knew she'd been sick, but at the age of 86, GrandMary was one to rally, so I had been determined not to go. We were worried about money, waiting for my writing jobs to also rally. There were a million reasons to stay home. She lived in Washington D.C., I was in Los Angeles. Our son had just started at a huge public middle school. Each night was filled with science projects, word problems, the Man vs. Nature Packet. Our daughter was trying to memorize her multiplication tables and get ready for Astro Camp. There were piano lessons, art classes, soccer practice. We had a 9-month-old baby bent on life-threatening climbing expeditions.

But when my brother generously offered the ticket, I couldn't say no. I took a red-eye the following week, thinking I'd go for two days. I was still nursing Norah, but she was eating solid food. Two days wouldn't be that long away from her, and without her I could focus my attention on GrandMary.

When I arrived on Friday morning and saw how ill she was, I realized I wouldn't be able to leave. She looked at me and smiled and said, "You haven't changed." I held her hand. She was the one who had taken me to Hawaii, San Francisco and Las Vegas on a Catholic tours trip when I was 17. We saw "Cats," "Evita," "West Side Story" and tons of movies together. We'd go out to lunch in Georgetown or to the "hot shop" for milkshakes. She sent postcards from Egypt, Rome, Ireland, England and Alaska. I spent many, many summers with her growing up. She never missed a birthday or holiday, sending checks and clothes from Talbots, signing everything, "All my love, GrandMary."

She was prone to loving exaggeration, making all her children and grandchildren seem like far better people than we really were. When I eloped at the age of 24 and was married by a stranger named Squire Max Wolfe in a lobby at the courthouse on Gay Street in Knoxville, she told everyone that a dear friend (a squire) from England had flown in especially to perform the ceremony at a charming chapel in South Knoxville.

I was the oldest of her 18 grandchildren. She was my grandmother, and as she looked up at me from her bed, I could see what I did not want to see. She was dying.

One month earlier, she'd fallen down at home (where she'd lived for 62 years), and then gradually grown weaker. Doctors suspected that the breast cancer she'd had in the 1980s had metastasized in her bones, which would explain her pain, confusion and rapid decline. They moved her to my aunt's farm in Maryland and brought in a hospital bed. Hospice started the day I arrived.

When I decided I couldn't leave, I also realized I couldn't leave the baby with my husband for however long it was going to take. We chose to banish all thoughts of credit card debt. This would be money we would never regret spending. My husband flew Norah out late on Saturday night and went back right away on Sunday to be with our other two children. We nicknamed him "the baby courier."

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