She's not fat, she's fluffy

 This story may not be politically correct but it is true. He was only 40 when he was told that there was no cure, and he was worried about his mom, because his older brother had died a few months earlier and his dad was terminally ill. He told her that he would go to a hospice residence because he refused to burden her with his care. But, he told her, don't write me off just yet. I intend to live as long as I can, and it's not over until the fat lady sings. At our hospice residence, he was an interesting guy, and the staff got to know him, and of his love for music and books. He and his mom visited together every day and they laughed about his “fat lady plan” a lot, with that grim laughter that sometimes comes with terminal illness. In fact, they decided that at his funeral, when the day came, she would play “His eye is on the sparrow” by a particular favorite singer, whom they thought of as “the fat lady.” One night, as he was growing weaker, he asked his mom if she thought it could be almost time for him to go and she told him yes, she loved him and would miss him, but she understood and would be okay. His mom left for a little bit and when she came back, one of the aides told her that she didn't know why, but she had felt led, almost compelled, to stop by his room and sing “The eye is on the sparrow” for him. He went to sleep then and never woke up. And yes, the aide who came in to sing . . .  . well, not one of us would have said so, but she would have readily admitted that she pretty much fit the description.