instinct, or who we are before we stop to think about it

Priscilla called yesterday morning to tell me that her Dad had died. It was not a sudden event, her father had been making his way through terminal cancer for at little more than two years. Lately more systems were being stressed and he had begun a slow transition. She was able to go home to visit over Memorial Day, and had talked to him the night before he passed, making sure to tell him that she loved him. Robert Andrews waited for his wife to leave the room for a minute and then he went. I have heard of it happening this way before, either the person waits until somebody can arrive and say goodbye or they wait until the caregiver leaves to finally exhale. This must be instinct, we must be somehow wired to know how to die when the time comes- a deep and instinctual letting go.
She let me know what had happened on my voicemail. When I called her back, the first thing she said was, "was that wrong of me to leave that on your voicemail?" Who the hell cares? "yes, don't let it happen again" I'm lucky that we have the same sense of humor. Dealing with loss is also based in instinct I think. When a loved one is lost, everything else stops, time expands and changes directions, and you don't think you just do. I asked her if she'd like me to come to Niagara Falls and she said she didn't know how to answer- she felt awkward saying yes and awkward saying no. I called her right back and told her I was going to unburden her from another thing to think about and just book my ticket. I'm proud of my priorities. I could have talked myself out of going for many practical reasons, but I want to be a person who puts the people she loves before a job and logistics and practicalities.
I leave Tuesday for Niagara Falls and when I arrive I'll be in charge of the meal following the wake. My instincts tell me to include "salads" made with marshmallows and dished that end in casserole. Is it wrong of me to perpetuate the myth that salads could possibly include a marshmallow? Again, who the hell cares?