When my late husband David Israel was diagnosed with ALS in 2010, I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever cope. Someone in his neurologist’s office handed me a manual called the “ALS Caregivers Guide.” There were sections for “Drooling,” “Choking,” and “Feeding Tubes.” The last one was “Saying Goodbye.” “How will I possibly handle this?” I asked a friend. “Call Ron Hoffman!” she said. I waited for him in a café south of Boston. A long-haired guy in jeans showed up, speaking in a Southern twang. I remembered that moment when, years later, I asked a man whose father had ALS if he’d ever heard of Ron Hoffman. “You mean the hippie ALS guy?” he said.