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I'll never forget the contrast between the deaths of my grandparents on my mom's side, both members of the Hemlock Society and my grandmother on my dad's side, a widow of a Baptist Evangelist (he died a few years before I was born).

I remember how my grandfather described the end for his beloved wife of over 50 years - he and some friends who were also in the Hemlock society sat down stairs in the living room and waited for her to pick up the gun my grandfather always kept in the nightstand and blow her head off, which she did.

About 5 years later, he did the same, only he didn't aim so good, and just blew his face off, and died over the course of a week or so. My dad flew out immediately, and I was going to as well - this was the grandfather I was named after, sailed to Puerto Vallarta with twice when I was a kid and many dozens of other times - but decided not to after my dad implored me not to, with a great deal of horror in his voice. And then there was my grandmother on my Dad's side, a saintly woman who spent her days listening to gospel on the radio, as she had been completely blind for over 20 years, living with my dad for the last 10.

She spent her last month in a nursing home with ailments that decimated her body. I had been out of state, and hadn't realized how far she'd regressed. I went with my dad to visit her, and though the shape under the covers was a fraction of the size I expected, she was perfectly lucid, we had a nice conversation, including what was happening, and, I would have sworn, for a few minutes there, could see perfectly when she looked into my eyes and made me promise to be saved.

My dad and I went back to his place, and by the time we got there, the nursing home had called to say she quietly slipped away minutes after we left.

I don't judge my other grandparents, but I did realize the difference between a traumatic horror and a beautiful sending off, neither of which I will ever forget.