I have no idea if anyone reads this, but I have said that I am doing it for me, so I have to accept that even if no one else reads this I am benefitting.

I think of that poetic line "Death be not proud". I think alot of death the past few days because they have been so bad, difficult, different, I don't know what the word is. Yesterday when the hospice nurse left, I told her that this whole thing sucked. The end should not be so hard, and while my Mom really has no bad pain,other than her arthritic shoulders, the end of life shouldn't be about bathroom stuff. About adjusting medications so bowels aren't impacted or so loose as to not be stoppable, robbing the body of any nutrients at all.Pills to make sure that the bladder doesn't constantly leak. A parent shouldn't have to suffer the indignity of a "child" wiping them and a "child" shouldn't have such intimate knowledge of their parent. How long does this go on? Who knows, certainly not the medical profession, certainly not me or my brother or my sister or my husband. Maybe it all seems more glaring after spending time with someone so full of life and joy as my grand-daughter.

The good deaths that I remember: My grandfather, Al Stromberg, died in his sleep the day before his birthday party. He did his sit-ups and weights until the day he died. He was mobile, able and sharp. My Dad, who said "This is my last Thanksgiving." and got into bed on Saturday and slept and passed on Sunday afternoon, never waking again, but the football game softly played all afternoon.

My Mom still wants to dress each day, have her hair combed and if she sleeps, she sleeps in the living room or the t.v. room. Only going to bed after a particularly bad loss of bowel control. Resting for a few hours and then saying that she needs to get up and go into the other room. She says she doesn't know why she is still here, that God has forgotten her, but fights to be present each day.