It was one long day, preceded by one long night. I was tired beyond words.

The phone rang. It was my cousin, Kathy, almost 10 years to the day my senior, the oldest girl in a family of eight, the matriarch-in-waiting. If I was tired, she had to be exhausted. Still, Kathy was calling, checking in, making sure we knew we were included in the tight-knit circle of support and grief for her brother David, even if we didn't have the same last name.

A day earlier, word had passed from one to another that David's long-awaited next round of chemotherapy for cancer would never happen. The disease was taking over his liver and had spread to his lungs. There was nothing left to do except give comfort. David's life would be measured now in days. It seemed impossible. Defy the famous family luck? Defeat the indefatigable family optimism?

David's is an uncommon family, and not just for its size. Led by my Aunt Betty and Uncle Tom -- steel-willed, Irish-stock North Siders -- their clan blossomed over more than six decades of marriage:

Tommy, the oldest, a storyteller with a magic touch for business; Mickey, the consummate family man who reminds me of my dad in his love for his wife and his devotion to his children; Danny, the responsible yet free-spirited philosopher; Kathy, the self-sacrificing teacher with a strength matched by humor; Donna, the gentle caretaker with the beauty and resilience of willow; Karen, the independent, accepting and forgiving one; Johnny, the quick-witted baby, sensitive and intelligent. And David, sandwiched between Kathy and Donna, the tender-hearted contractor-cum-musician.

I see David as a skinny boy, in dark-rimmed glasses, hair parted to the side, big smile. Then in high school, behind the wheel of his cool car, chauffeuring me and my sister. I see him on our patio, strumming guitar ballads. At the bar in our game room in the wee hours, picking at the leftover Thanksgiving turkey, talking to my parents, an Iron City in his hand. Sweating on the dock at Chautauqua where he and his brothers spent more time fixing their boat than fishing from it. Pouring a concrete walkway at my new house. Laughing. Teasing. Dying.

The colorful bouquet of personalities that make up David's family, as different as they are, remain bound together by tolerance, love and selflessness. These traits have been passed down from Aunt Betty and Uncle Tom to their children and grandchildren, all of whom came together this week to be at David's side.

When I took my 81-year-old mother to Allegheny General Hospital to see her beloved nephew -- my cousin, but more like a brother -- he put his thin arms around her shoulders and whispered in her ear: "Don't worry. I'm going to make it." It was a gift to her, a chance to turn away for a minute from the ticking clock and the hard truth. It was characteristic of his generosity.

That night, when Kathy called, we talked of many things, how nothing would be the same without David, how life surges on, fueled by both pain and joy.

Before we hung up, we shared a hope that God would be merciful in the time that remained for David. She couldn't help adding an against-the-odds invocation that's emblematic of her family's optimism: "Who knows, maybe things will turn around." And we laughed. Oh, this crazy family ...

When David told my mother not to worry, that he was going to make it, he was right, whether he knew it or not, because he already had "made it." He had made it to the end of a life well-lived, one that will be remembered by many, one that will be a reminder that while a life may be measured by its length, it also is measured by its depth.

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.