Sue Mingus's memoir (2002) of her husband Charles who died in 1979.
By all accounts he was a pretty miserable human being. Sue does not try to paint a flattering portrait. His music is occasionally great (more often just okay) and his ex-bandmembers were happy to put together a couple of big bands to play his compositions now that he's not around anymore to make the experience miserable.
When he was diagnosed with ALS the doctors said there was nothing they could do. This was as true in 1979 as it was in 2012 when my mom died of it. It's still true today. In desperation -- and only half-hoping -- Charles sought "alternative" cures in Mexico involving chicken sacrifices and cow shit poultices. They didn't work.
Sue's narrative of spreading his ashes in the Ganges -- amid the chaos, filth, degradation and sectarianism of India -- were the best part of the book. One wonders if it was Charles' final practical joke on his long-suffering wife.
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