On the fourth anniversary of Quentin’s stroke he was terribly depressed.  He was convinced he was going to die that night, and he wanted to. . .

When we went to bed he told me he didn’t know what was going to happen in the night, but if I woke up and he was having a problem he wanted me to try to go back to sleep and leave him alone.

He woke up alive and fairly cheerful the next morning.  I never get excited about death premonitions the way my mother did.  Dad could make her jump through a hoop when he would cry and say he was dying.  I made three trips to Florida one year.  She would call me up crying and upset about him.  Frankly, it never made much sense to me, as she had kept a nice black dress in the back of her closet to wear to his funeral since 1946 – and maybe before.