Sherri by Elsie O'Day
Art:Street in Asgardstrand by Edvard Munch
She could neither move nor speak. But those forgetmenot blue eyes, locked on mine, spoke her pain and fear more piercingly than a scream. Her heart raced, the frantic beating visible from anywhere in the room. Her room. She had selected the delicate pansy wallpaper over a year ago and we had laughed together, having such fun choosing the filmy white curtains and eyelet lace comforter. Sofi lamps that were never turned at? lighted the room now and the stainless steel hospital bed looked so alien in this feminine place. I had hidden the red biohazard container out of sight days ago. My rocker, pulled close to her bed, made no sound and I held her hand through the side rails of the bed. Renal failure had dropped her gently into a deep coma days ago, a blessed reprieve from relentless pain, and it seemed death would be kind and deal tenderly with this daughter who had suffered such agony. It took two years for the ravaging cancer to defeat her. But all through radiation, TLW/40
