My work on LINA (the working title for my new novel-in-progress) came to a halt this month. I had a visit to Seattle planned to teach two writing workshops and visit old friends, but the week before I went there, I learned that a dear friend who'd been ill for some time was now dying of cancer.

I met Karen 14 years ago when I was pregnant with my son. We both lived then in Indianola, Washington, a town of about 1600 people. She had a new baby, and we were part of a group that formed when another pregnant friend went to the Indianola post office and asked, "Who else is pregnant in this town?" The two postmistresses--yes, we called them that--gave her a list of about a dozen names of pregnant women, and our moms group was born. Over time our group became a toddler play group, then a preschool group. Our families took camping trips together, shared kids and advice and complaints, and eventually, when the first batch of kids graduated from pre-school, my husband Dwight and I suggested we meet at least monthly for a group dinner, so we'd all stay in touch on a regular basis.

By then Karen had become a close friend. I drank many cups of tea in Karen's living room while our kids played on her beige carpeted floor. I admired Karen's commitment to playing piano, her devotion to her large garden, her patience with picking ripe fruit from her lengthy rows of raspberry plants. I knew she'd had an adventurous past in Alaska, where she met her husband Jay, but the Karen I knew was a smart, solid, responsible friend, mother, gardener, physical therapist, and wife with a dry sense of humor and a seemingly tireless ability to attend to the needs of others.

Before I moved out of Indianola when my son was 5 years old, I got to know Karen well on long walks in our town and hikes in the Olympic Mountains. While some of the other women on our not-quite-monthly hikes bounded ahead, Karen and I would walk steadily together, talking, talking, talking. I was grateful that our paces matched, but as I got to know Karen better and better, I was even more grateful that our temperaments were, if not matching, then complementary. When I experienced a great deal of sorrow over several miscarriages, Karen was able to listen to my grief in a way that few others could. She didn't chide me for not being grateful enough about the child I already had, or challenge me to adopt, or tell me I needed to move on. She simply listened, occasionally asking thoughtful questions. Her acceptance of me at that time helped me to accept a situation and emotions that at times felt nearly intolerable.

When I went to see her at her house last month, I knew her health was failing quickly. I hoped to have a half-hour or maybe an hour with her. I'd have to see what was possible. When I arrived at noon, she was sleeping. I sat close to her, watched her, thought about her strength, her humor, her warmth. She woke, and we talked, but not for long. She was so tired that she kept falling asleep. I took out the manuscript I've been working on and tried to focus on it. Sometimes I just watched her breathe, each breath separated by long spans of stillness. I tried to breathe that way; I couldn't get enough oxygen.

Karen slept and woke throughout the afternoon. Each time she woke, our conversations became shorter, and her sentences became shorter as well. She was anxious to see her two children, one 12, the other 15. She and Jay had a plan to talk with them about being prepared for the end.

At one point Karen woke and noticed my manuscript. In her tired voice, she asked me to tell her what the story was about. After I explained briefly, she said, "You've developed the idea a lot since you last told me about it." I was stunned: Karen was dying, and yet she could focus on the details of my work. Earlier that day, she had scolded her husband for moving in ways that were hurtful to his back. This from a woman who could no longer lift herself from a chair or walk across a room, and who knew she would not be with us much longer.

The end came sooner than I had expected. The dinner group was gathering that night, and Karen had wanted everyone--some 35 or so adults, teens, and children--to come by and tell her all the wonderful things that people usually don't say until the memorial service. She wanted to hear those things before she died. But right before the group was scheduled to come, Karen's body began to fail rapidly. She became at times delirious, and she lost all mobility. At 6:20 pm, with her husband, two other friends, a hospice nurse, and myself present, Karen died.

The dinner group was gathered at a nearby house, holding the ceremony they'd wanted to have with Karen. Karen's two children were with the group when she stopped breathing. A close friend was singing Karen's favorite song. My phone call to ask someone to bring the kids, right after Karen died, interrupted the group right in the middle of the song.

I went to Karen hoping for a bit of time in which to say goodbye. I was able to do that, but I got much more: reacquaintance with a remarkable community; a view of death as a profound and strangely beautiful passing; and a model of how to die with deliberateness, caring, and courage. I miss my friend dearly, but right now, I feel her presence in nearly everything.