On the afternoon of June 28, 2020, Norm Macdonald had an idea. This was not a normal day. The next morning, he would have a stem cell transplant at the City of Hope Medical Center just east of Los Angeles. The cancer, in remission for seven years, had returned.

"Lojo, I want to shoot it tonight," he said.

"Oh, boy. Really?" she said.

"Lojo" is Lori Jo Hoekstra, his best friend, neighbor — they lived in the same condo complex in Los Angeles — and producing partner for more than two decades. In 2013, after doctors diagnosed Macdonald, she temporarily moved with him to Arizona as he disappeared from public view for four months to undergo his first stem cell transplant. This time, the procedure would take place closer to home. But it would also make it hard for Macdonald to stick to his original plan for his next Netflix stand-up special.

He was stage-ready and planning to tape a pair of performances in Los Angeles. Then the coronavirus pandemic hit, shuttering entertainment venues across the nation. At almost the same time, Macdonald's monthly visit to the hospital revealed that the original cancer, multiple myeloma, had metastasized into myelodysplastic syndrome, which can often lead to acute leukemia. The diagnosis left Macdonald and Hoekstra spinning and unsure of the next steps. Except for one thing: Whatever happened, Macdonald wanted to make sure his material was shown.

And it will be. "Nothing Special," which he named before he died in September at 61, of complications from cancer, is airing now on Netflix. It includes footage of a group of friends and admirers — David Letterman, Dave Chappelle, Molly Shannon, Conan O'Brien, David Spade, Adam Sandler — discussing the comedian on camera after watching his final creation together.

"I felt this kind of joy that Norm's back, to be honest with you," O'Brien said in an interview about the experience. "I felt like he's here with us. Isn't this a nice gift to get to be with Norm some more?"

People like to say there was nobody like Norm Macdonald, and they say that because it's true. He worked in a business run by dealmakers and compromisers and yet could never commit to doing anything less than fully his way. His pattern was to have no pattern. In 1997, when he was anchor of "Weekend Update" on "Saturday Night Live," a top NBC executive told him to stop telling jokes about former football star O.J. Simpson, who had been acquitted in a high-profile murder trial. Macdonald told more jokes, until he was fired. A decade later, he arrived at a profane roast of comedian Bob Saget with a set of corny, G-rated Dad jokes that were so terrible, they were perfect. His appearances on late night TV were legendary, as were his tweetathons.

Macdonald's commitment to his craft extended to his personal life. He never explained his reasoning, but those closest to him think he kept his illness secret because he believed it would be bad for his comedy. Audiences would view him differently. Booking agents and TV producers might pause before giving him gigs. In a culture soaked in the confessional, Macdonald could have profited from the sympathy and inevitable publicity that would come from talking about his cancer battle. Instead, the only people he told were Hoekstra, manager Marc Gurvitz and his immediate family, including his older brother, Neil; mother, Ferne; and adult son, Dylan.

Hoekstra may have rolled her eyes or groaned when Macdonald told her he wanted to film that night before his transplant. This wasn't the first time Macdonald threw out an idea that struck her as difficult or even irrational. But Hoekstra, as organized and meticulous as Macdonald was proudly shambolic, usually just shook off her initial skepticism and did her job, which was to make Macdonald's ideas happen.

"I wasn't sure which cameras we were going to use or where it would be shot," she says now. "At first, I think we had him set up sitting on a chair like a little far away. And then we decided to move, for lighting and just to get closer. That's why we shot it where we did."

They set up in her condo. An HD camera captured Macdonald from the front, an iPhone from the side. For lighting, Hoekstra flipped on a bright lamp, and Macdonald, clean-shaven and wearing headphones and a blue sport coat over a pink golf shirt, sat at her kitchen counter. Her French bulldog, Aggie, let out a few barks.

"Hello, everybody," Macdonald said as the camera rolled. "Norm MACdonald. And this is my comedy special. That's right."

And for the next 54 minutes, without stopping, Macdonald delivered his material.

For Hoekstra, working on the special in the wake of Macdonald's death was a distraction. Now, after handing in the final cut, she struggles with how to talk about it.

She wrestles with whether the celebrity panel takes away from Macdonald's performance. She also isn't sure what to share of the comedian's life. Macdonald didn't want anything about his illness to get out, but there are things Hoekstra does want people to know about what he went through.

The rounds of chemotherapy in 2013 led to neuropathy that left him with constant pain in his feet, so bad that he described it as walking on shards of glass or through fire. It's why Macdonald, who loved to play tennis and golf, went through long bouts of inactivity. It's also why he wasn't always just being flaky when he bailed on social commitments.

Then there was his physical appearance. Just over 6 foot 1, with blue eyes and dimples, the 1990s Macdonald had leading man looks and briefly dated supermodel Elle Macpherson. But after his cancer diagnosis, he had to go on dexamethasone, a powerful steroid that caused his face to swell.

"He pretended, 'I'm a fat slob and I'm here eating fried chicken,' during his (YouTube talk show), but it was complete bull----," says his brother, Neil, a journalist with the Canadian Broadcasting Corp. "He was doing it to come up with a reason for having put on weight."

Hoekstra says Macdonald's focus remained on comedy, often at the expense of all else. She saw him do hundreds of shows over the years without repeating the same material in the same order. If he seemed dysfunctional in so many other areas of life — whether losing his hotel keys or forgetting how to sign on to his email — it's because of how much attention he gave to his work. It's how, the night before a stem cell transplant, Macdonald was able to reel off almost an hour of material without looking at a single note.

"Nothing was important to him except for his stand-up," she says. "Obviously, he had serious things in his life he was also dealing with, meaning the illness. But professionally and in life, it was all about the comedy."