For years I dreaded the moment of Lyria's passing—and not only for the profound loss it would bring. I was certain Lyria would be terrified at the prospect of dying, and had no idea how I could respond or help her confront her fear. I tried to imagine what words I could say that would be supportive and comforting, and always came up short.

But when Lyria's time came it was not like that at all. As many of you know, she spent her last days reaching out by telephone, receiving visitors, and sharing memories. Shortly before she passed, she told Barton and me, “ You remember we talked about whether at some point I would stop dialysis, but I'm not ready yet.” A day later, she told Tarso and me, “You know, I'm kind of afraid to die.” I caught my breath, and Tarso asked,”Do you want to talk about it?” “Not really,” she said, and went on to talk instead about pleasant moments from her past. Two days later, she was gone.

Lyria was filled with grace in her last days. Her spirit became peaceful, generous, forgiving. For years she showed us how to fight for life against the odds. And at the end she showed us how to let go. She was a mensch all the way.

Perhaps 20 years ago, when I was still working at Harvard Medical School, Lyria and my husband Ben came to an HMS holiday party. Noticing at one point that Lyria was sitting by herself on the sidelines, Ben sat down next to her and said what he thought would be a pleasing conversation opener: "Lyria, you have really beautiful eyes."

Lyria gave him a long look, then said, "How about the rest of me?"