BlueCross123

My mother is dying. It hasn't been a quick or dignified death either. She is bedridden and drowning in her own lung fluid as cancer rapidly consumes her. The drugs that dull her agony rob her of everything that defined and characterized the woman I've known for over three decades. Most of the time, she sleeps. In her few waking moments, she is a vacant, twitching zombie, little more than an id only capable of rasping pleas for more pills. Rarely, she emerges from the drug stupor haze, a portrait of quiet dread and exhaustion. In those moments, I don't see fear of imminent death in her eyes but fear for having to live another day through the merciless, unrelenting destruction of her body. In a rare moment of clarity, she intimated that she would suffer the agony if she could just have back control of her body, mind, and life. Only a few months ago, the portrait was very different. I liked to joke that my mother was the most aptly named woman in the world- Mary Mills. She was always