NEW YORK - Marcy Glanz had been battling ovarian cancer since early 2011, but in late November, she was given grim news: She had only several weeks to live. To ease the pain of death for herself and her loved ones, Glanz had a dying wish: She essentially wanted a monthlong farewell party that mixed frivolity and friendship, laughter and tears.

NEW YORK � Marcy Glanz had been battling ovarian cancer since early 2011, but in late November, she was given grim news: She had only several weeks to live.

�Many of us die too soon and have no chance to say goodbye, or we have a long, ugly, painful demise,� said her husband, retired economist Marion Stewart, 69. �Hers was neither of those.�

To ease the pain of death for herself and her loved ones, Glanz had a dying wish: She essentially wanted a monthlong farewell party that mixed frivolity and friendship, laughter and tears.

She wanted to say goodbye her way to her husband and their two sons, as well as to nearly everyone else she knew. She wanted to help plan her own memorial service and leave something heartfelt behind for her unborn grandchildren. She wanted a

poignant recapitulation of her 62 years on Earth.

For this party, she had a medical staff set her up in her W. 90th Street apartment so that she was mobile, despite �dangling with drains� and other tubes, Stewart said. First, she and Stewart reminisced about their years together, which began at a party on the Upper West Side in 1977, moments after the blackout hit.

�I always joked that if she had met me before the lights went out and got a good look at me, it wouldn�t have gone anywhere,� he said. That night, they talked by moonlight and soon fell in love. They married and, by the late 1980s, had two sons, Jeremy and Josh.

Glanz had a master�s in educational psychology from Harvard and had worked as a research associate for children�s television shows such as Sesame Street. After switching to advertising, she eventually stopped working to raise her sons.

The family spent early December sharing such memories. They dug out dozens of photo albums, home movies on videotape and even an old slide projector.

There was plenty of sobbing, �but there was a lot more laughing than crying,� the husband said. � We did many of the things that people do after death, but we did it before she died.�

Her most searing regret was that she would never experience becoming a grandmother. So her sons presented her with copies of the children�s book Goodnight Moon, and she recorded a version so that one day her grandchildren could be tucked in by the grandmother they never met.

Then came Glanz�s friends, some from across town, others from across the country. Many later confided to Stewart that her most-pressing wish was that they look after him.

By late December she was in a wheelchair but still having relatives give her manicures and helping the family make her traditional lemon meringue pie. For her 62nd birthday, on Dec. 24, she celebrated with three parties.

With great assistance, she even made the traditional family trip to The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center.

On New Year�s Eve, she decided spontaneously to throw �one last blowout party,� and invited 20 people over, Stewart said. She held forth in her wheelchair, toasting everyone with ginger ale, dressed in a pink, fuzzy boa that helped hide her emaciated frame.

On Jan. 5, she died in her bed, her family surrounding her.

Said longtime friend Catherine Paura: �It was as if, by facing her death through the prism of love, she transcended it.�