"I think she needs to be told that it's ok to go," several have now lent a voice to the sentiment. Charlie and I have come close to mutual tears at our perceived role in this direction. We've never cried in front of one another. Mom's been declining quickly. I watched them apply Vaseline to her lips and swab the inside of her mouth with water yesterday afternoon. I watched her doze off in the middle of a sentence. I watched her wake up to dry heaves. She hasn't eaten anything in days.

Wednesday afternoon they ordered a CT Scan of her head, ruling out possibilities of brain tumor. It came back clean. So...apparently she's healthy as a horse? There's talk of maybe inserting a tube through her stomach, so they can flush the contents before she vomits. She no longer urinates.

People want to see her, visit with her...she doesn't want them there. She barely wants me there. She doesn't want me, or Charlie, to remember her like this. She tears up when I enter the room and turns her face the other direction for awhile. She hates it...the grief clogs the room and I claw the air for my next breath.

"Wait until I get better," she mumbles in almost-gibberish. She'll visit with all of her friends once she's better again, she promises. This isn't living. She doesn't have the strength to walk. She regurgitates ice chips. She's either in great pain or doped up on pain killers...and there doesn't seem to be a happy medium.

I have a prayer locket, compliments of Aunt Debbie, circa Christmas 2004, in honor of my mother's valiant fight against this disease. I scribbled on a scrap early this week, "Grant her peace," and tucked it inside. My prayers are on a deeper level now. I don't ask for specifics. I don't ask for favors that I'll ever see. I want a reckoning, a final judgement from the higher power. I just want it over, whatever end that may be.

I comprehend so little in all of this; I beg for wisdom.

Now, tell me, how do you invite someone to die when they're so determined to live?