My copy editor died.

Well, not my copy editor. Someone else's copy editor.

My copy editor died.
No need to be upset on my account. I hadn’t seen Helene Pleasants for at least 10 years before her death; and even those closest to her would agree that her death was timely. After a long life, with one great adventure at its heart, many pleasures and pitfalls, Helene died at the age of 93. Hopefully, she died in her sleep. Helene would have killed me for that last sentence.
....
“You need Helene” was a phrase I used only last year when a writer, just starting out, asked me to read his first manuscript. I read the manuscript with Helene’s eye and ear, which is the way I read everything. What Helene taught me I can’t unlearn, any more than I can unlearn how to swim. And when I had finished reading, I made this young writer an offer:

“I had Helene,” I said. “You need a Helene. If you like, I’ll be your Helene.” But when my writer realized what having a Helene meant — his sentences picked apart, his every intention and decision questioned — he politely declined. I hardly blame him. I’d like to believe that he’ll rue the day, but I doubt it. Nobody has Helene’s standards; nobody reads like Helene anymore. And I’ve changed my mind: it is a pity that Helene died. As long as she lived, I could still think of myself as a young writer.

From What My Copy Editor Taught Me in the New York Times.