Long ago my Dad was in the hospital and told me that his cancer was terminal, that he had six months to live if he went on chemotherapy or six weeks to live without it, and he decided to go with the six week option.
He got as far as, "six months to live" when I began to cry. I wasn't able to talk by the time he got to "six week option."
He paused after the announcement, and listened to me sob quietly for a moment. Then he said, in a tone that suggested that this was not the reaction he expected, he said, "... Well ... don't cry." As if to say, "Aren't you overreacting just a little? I'm just dying."
(He then spent his hospice calling up old friends, making small talk for a minute, and then, "Turns out I'm going to die in a few weeks." I hope none of them cried.)
When Mom was in the hospital, and found out she was going to die, I was already weeping on a regular basis anyway. One day I came in and a nurse pulled me aside and said, "Your Mom is worried about you. She feels you're crying too much."
I want you all to know, when I die I expect the full complement of the Gnashing of the Teeth and Rending of Garments. When the time comes, if there is any question of What Ellen Would Have Wanted, I would have wanted you to be unhappy.