You know, since the big guy tipped us off that the event's inevitable, and that it's coming, I've checked the Omaha World-Herald every single morning, looking for a headline, PROMINENT LABOR LEADER SUCCUMBS.
There's never any such headline, or story.
The big guy professes to love his wife, poor dear Marta, who's carried them and their children on her back all of her married life--while she was bringing home the bacon, the big guy was bringing home an occasional 99-cent bag of Frito-Lay fried pork rinds--but he's certainly been demonstrating no such love ever since he was first diagnosed as terminal.
The longer time goes on, the older the two of them get, and the fewer days left in this world for both of them, the less of a chance poor dear Marta's going to have as a widow, to meet and marry some guy who'll treat her better.
If the big guy truly loved poor dear Marta, he'd spring himself loose of this mortal coil as quickly as possible, so as to give her more time.
Of course, it's all humbug, a sort of sick, twisted humor, this "I'm terminal, so feel sorry for me" stuff. It shouldn't be news to the big guy that from the moment one emerges from the womb--either as a decent and civilized person, or a primitive--one's terminal, destined to die sooner or later.