Mom's doing worse," Dad said, as he stood in my kitchen watching my little boy eat noodles and cheese.

It was, in a way, an unnecessary statement. Mom's been doing worse every day for the last year -- much longer than that, really. But I knew what he meant.

"I talked to her on the phone this morning," I said. "She was out of breath from taking a shower."

He nodded. "She's ... gotten a lot worse the last week or so."

So the end is near. How near? We don't know. It could be months; it could be tonight. Neither would surprise me. But I knew Dad could feel it hovering.

He put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye.

"It's OK," he said. "She's OK with it. I'm OK with it. It's really all right."

"I know," I said. "I just feel like I should be doing more somehow."

"You're taking care of your own family," he said. "That's what she wants you to do."

•

Mom is 72. You read obituaries about people dying at 72 and think nothing of it; it's a normal age to die. But the funny thing is, Mom never got old. Her hair is still only halfway gray, her face unlined, her spirit as open and welcoming as ever. Her thoughts are not stuck on medications, misery or even memory -- they are on her children and grandchildren, the events of their lives, their hopes and dreams.

"I've had everything I could have ever wanted in life," she told me recently. "I've had a wonderful marriage to the perfect man. My children are all good people, all married, all happy, all with families of their own."

As she said it, we were sitting on her hospital bed in the middle of the night. I'd been sleeping on the floor and woke to the sound of her gasping in panic. I stroked her back while she sucked oxygen and calmed down.

"At moments like that I want to let go," she said. "Then it gets better."

She said she would love to see her older grandchildren get married, and would love to be around to watch the little ones get old enough to remember her -- my son is not quite three and has a cousin about six months older.

"But that's OK," she said. "No matter what I miss, I still had everything." Then she smiled. "At least I know I'm not going to get Alzheimer's. That's always been my biggest fear."

•

Mom's been dealing with mysterious health issues for years -- fatigue, joint pain, shortness of breath. Doctors mentioned various possible diagnoses, all of them strange syndromes I'd never heard of. But no diagnosis really stuck. Privately, I thought hypochondria should be part of any honest assessment.

I was wrong. About a year and a half ago, Mom told us that all the problems came back to a slow but inexorable erosion of lung function. The doctors couldn't name it and couldn't really treat it. They also couldn't say how long it would take to kill her, only that it would.

She shed no tears. "I'll be in the spiritual world, and I'll be young and strong, and when Dad gets there we'll be together."

She has put her time since into writing letters to all her grandchildren, to be given out after she's gone. She's collected her photos and mementos, communicated to friends and relatives. She is prepared. Her biggest worry is about Dad, how he'll get along without her.

•

Dad continues to come over once a week to play with my little boy while my wife and I work. They are best friends, reading books and exploring outdoors and playing with toys. We've talked about building him a cottage across the creek behind our house so he can visit as much as he wants.

He might do that, he said. His thoughts are on how he can be most useful, what he can do for his children and grandchildren.

"I figure the Lord still has things for me to do," he said, looking down at my son, busy with his lunch. "Otherwise I'd be going with her."

And like her, he has no fear -- none -- about the future. Their shared faith has been the center of their life together, and it remains the center as they face death. It's a faith that tells them that God created them to be husband and wife, that they will be husband and wife for eternity in heaven, in a state of love and wisdom and usefulness and joy.

"She'll be waiting for me," he said, "and we'll grow young together."

And I thought, "I'll see you there someday, Dad."

Cartoonist Rob Rogers does "Rob's Rough," an early look at his work and his creative process, exclusively at PG+, a members-only web site of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Our introduction to PG+ gives you all the details.