What To Expect When You're Expecting a Gertie

Welcome. If you are reading this, it most likely means that you noticed that persistent pain somewhere in your body (for me it was my stomach) and visited the doctor (or, in my case, the ER). Also, by now, you more than likely experienced the joy of being submitted to countless blood tests, X-Rays, scans, and endless questions posed by the various doctors you have seen. And I am sure you smiled and said your date of birth, repeatedly, with patience and understanding, without showing fear or worry over the unknown creature living withing your body that is causing you pain, or at the very least...discomfort.

Now as you sit and ponder your existence (and the tumor living comfortably where it shouldn't be) you are filled with questions and concerns about the journey ahead of you. Maybe you are a loner and do not have any friends to turn to. Maybe you are one of those people that have tons of friends but no one that "gets" you, so you don't really discuss your "stuff" with people. Or, maybe, you are one of the few people who don't know ANYONE who has EVER had a tumor or cancer, so everyone you know is looking at you with pity, but really have no advice to give.

If you are one of the latter, well I am truly sorry. That sucks for you.

But, make no never mind, where ever you are in your walk with your tumor, I am here to hold your hand and help guide you through the twists and turns you will run into on your road to recovery.

First, let me tell you a little about me.

On one particular Saturday, I awoke with stomach pains. My back had been hurting off and on for some time, but I never paid it any attention. You know how it is, you feel a small stab, almost like a little shock to the o'le kidney area, and you dismiss it as soon as it vanishes. I told myself I must need more water. That's it. More water.

Anyways, I carried on with my day. I got my hair done. Picked the kids up from my sister's house. Made lunch. As the day drew on, the pain in my stomach got worse. Lunch time saw me throwing up blood. Twice. Not cool man. Not cool.

After I deposited my precious cherubs with a friend, I drove myself to the ER. And, after waiting six hours, I went to a different ER.

**A word about emergency rooms. They are not all the same. Do not EVER be afraid to emergency room shop. You can always tell if you are in a good ER that will treat you fairly and give you a good heaping dose of awesome medical care. It's easy really. Look to the person who is sitting near you. Take their arm. Feel for a pulse. If no pulse is present, switch hospitals. Follow this simple rule, and you will never go wrong.**

I waited an hour in the lobby of my new ER. After I was taken to the back, I.V.s were started. An EKG was done, followed by an X-Ray and a CT scan. Armed with the findings of these three tests, a doctor entered my little room to tell me that they could not find a blockage in my abdominal area, but there was a 'large mass' on my adrenal gland. I was to be admitted. 

One week later I was discharged with the diagnosis of gastroenteritis and an adrenal gland tumor. I was worried and still in a considerable amount of pain. But, over the past few weeks I have learned to cope and since you have come here, I will share my coping skills with you.

Coping Skills
1) Name Your Tumor.
        I named my tumor Gertrude. Or Gertie for short. Naming it makes it real. Making it real, gives you an object that can be defeated. A 'tumor' is something no one can see. It lives within you. It takes up residence in whatever organ system that decided to create it, and it continues to wreak havoc there. A tumor can only be dealt with by a doctor. A trained physician, that you have no choice but to trust, will look at you and tell you what's going to happen to your body. You sit there, feeling powerless, and nod your head. You listen as they tell you the size of it. (Mine is 7.2cm X 6.4cm X 6.2cm) Naming the offensive critter will at least create control in your mind. It will give you some feeling of power. You will know that you are its host. And you are just biding time til you can serve the eviction notice.

2) Do Not Google Anything
       You have probably already done this. I started to, but quickly learned that I was doing nothing but driving myself insane. Do not, whatever you do, Google your symptoms. If you are anything like me, you will have yourself diagnosed with the rarest forms of cancer known to man. In fact, your cancer will be so rare, that it is still unknown. You will have nightmares where you are standing in the front of a room, facing the entire medical community that EVER EXISTED, and telling them what type of cancer you have. They will even name the disease after you. When you die (because, well let's face it, the cancer is too rare to survive) the medical establishment will not let you be buried; but instead, will steal your body, in the name of science, from the mortuary . Save yourself the heartache. Unless you continue to watch porn, don't even approach Google.

3) Be Kind To Others
       I know. I know. You are the one with this....thing.....growing in you and I am telling you to be kind to others. Well, let's face it, you are probably loved. Somebody, somewhere, is concerned about you. And that one concerned person is going to ask you a million concerned questions. There are times when I get impatient with these people. And then there are times when I find myself having to tell them how much it is going to be OK. It's weird. I know. But, you have to just suck it up and allow people to be...concerned. No matter how much they irritate you, you just gotta smile. Nod. Allow them this little bit of time with you. It makes them feel better. And they need that. And frankly, one day you will need them to make you feel better.

4) Listen
       If you are fortunate enough to have people in your life that have experienced something of this magnitude before, then seek them out. Listen to them. If they come to you with unsolicited advice, take it. Take it and pay attention. They have fought this battle before and you can definitely learn something. As smart as you are (being that you've diagnosed yourself with the rarest of cancers) you still don't know everything. So, listen and take in everything they say. Then tell them thank you.

5) Be Patient
       This is not a race. After the initial discovery of your unwanted friend, it will still be a long time before you see an oncologist. And just for the record, an Oncologist is a doctor that specializes in cancer. Do not be like me and freak out the moment it dawns on you that that's who you are going to be seeing. You have a tumor. They are 'tumor doctors'. Even if your special little tumor is not cancerous, you will still be seeing that particular doctor. And it will take FOREVER before your first visit. During this time, you need to stay as busy as your occupied body will allow. If you are like me, and in constant pain of some degree, then do what you can. Take up knitting......Ha! Kidding. Who the hell wants to knit? But, do something that you can do comfortably. Don't push yourself. You are not a superhero. Relax. And be patient.

Well, that's all I have for now. I will share more with you as I learn more. In the meantime, I will be sitting here with Gertrude and resting. I suggest you do the same. We have a long journey ahead of us. It's one that requires tons of fortitude and humor.

Luckily, I posses both.

Perfect

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Wait

She was so tired of loving him. The years, long and dry, had seen her shed countless tears over his unexplainable need to wait. Wait for the perfect time. Wait for him to achieve the goals that he had set forth some ungodly time ago. Her life revolved around his need for time to become perfect.

She knew that it never would. Time is never perfect. Never right for anyone. No two people had ever come together in the exact space and time that was without strife or forethought on their part. So, she knew, like the ocean knew where it would roll into the shore, that no matter how many years passed her by, she would always be loving him. And the timing would never be right.

And she was so tired. Restless. Ready to move on with her life. Ready to invite someone into her fold and care for them the way she longed to tend to him. But, there was no one waiting in the wings to swoop in and bring her the salvation that she craved. There was not a soul that could offer her the connection that he had placed in her reach unknowingly.

Patience. He had explained one night. Patience is the key. I still have work to do, he said. You have work to do. But, she knew she didn't have the labors of life that he had. She had her children. She had her home. Her life consisted of those two things. And she was quite happy with how trivial it had become. She had room in her world to accommodate him. He didn't.

He wanted her to wait. But, she'd grown weary of putting her heart on hold. Her soul cried out for her to let him go, her heart, precious and vital to living, begged for mercy in its frozen state. Let me go, it screamed. I was made to pump vigorously. Madly, I have love to give to others. You are suffocating me. Let me thrive and grow for someone one else. Anyone else.

But, there was no one. No one to grab her hand and tell her the waiting was over. She had no one to kiss. She was void of whispers and soft touches. Her hair was never touched. There was no one to inhale her scent and look into her eyes. She had no one to love.

Loving him was robbing her of years. Waiting was slowing killing her. Thump, by precious thump, her heart gave up its beat of life. Slowly, with the echos of empty promises playing in her mind, she would close her eyes and say she would give it just one more day. Just one more day to see if he would begin to love her.

Or just tell her to wait.

Death

I kissed Death today.
It was delicious.
His lips were soft
Like petals on a flower.
His breath was sweet
As honey.
His embrace was
Constricting and invasive.

I touched Death today.
I nuzzled my lips to his cheek.
I felt the smooth contours of his dried bones.
My fingers danced across his skull
They twirled around his long fingers.
They scratched across his ribs and
Tickled his spine.

I laid down with Death today.
He played in my hair
Twisting the dark strands and turning them
An ash grey.
He traced the contours of my body
And I watched as my skin crumbled under his spell.
He parted my veins and
Turned my blood to pools of black magic.
He kissed my eyelids and blinded me to the light.

I spoke to Death today.
He sang a sweet melody
"Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Lay with Me
And Forget the Fuss".
His voice groaned
And I moaned with
Pleasure and despair.
Never wanting it to end
I begged for more, more, more.

I succumbed to Death today.
I went quietly.
Enthusiastically.
He brought me into his black cloak
And took me down into the pits of his exquisite misery.
He wrapped my long hair around his wrist and turned
Me onto my side.
He grasped my throat with his hand
And whispered "Don't breathe".

I became one with Death today
As our bodies moved in time.
His breath
Hot on my neck,
Quick and fearless.
My eyes began to drip
The tears that I have longed for.
I took him in
And gave him all I had. 

Today was the sweetest day.

Bump in the Night

I have always been afraid of the dark. Always. Creatures live there. They exist where the light dies. Small beings, with hate and death on their minds, play and dance within my grasp. Their fingers tickle my cheek, lovingly caressing my hair as I hurry past them to step into the light. Walking the few feet from the living room to my bedroom causes my pulse to race and the blood to pump furiously in my ears. My couch stands empty when the room is lit, but as soon as blackness fills the void, a mysterious monster takes its seat in the middle of the cushion. How do I know this? Because I can hear it breathing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand tall signaling to me that danger is awaiting as I stand, hand still on the lamp, frozen with fear, in the dark.

Do not laugh at my fear of the dark and the monsters that inhabit it. Do not sigh at me as you would a pestilent child who refuses to go to sleep. My apprehension, which grows with each ticking of the clock that signals the approach of nightfall, is all too real. It is grounded in truth and reality.

My first brush with the dark fear came when I was eight. Young and trusting, I climbed into bed that fateful night to sleep the sound slumber that I was used to. I felt the familiar weight of my eyelids as they began to close on my day. My breathing, heavy and rhythmic, pulled me down into the trenches of dreamland. My teddy bear, worn from years of love and closeness, was brought tightly to my chest. Time evaporated into the night. The moon rose in all its glory to signal that it was time to rest. My house settled in for the night, its baseboards ceased their creaking. My world, exhausted from the day's work, quiet within its own arms, embracing the solitude of silence, slept. The hands of the clock that kept time, quieted itself to a hushed ticking that only it could hear. We all heaved a heavy sigh of contentment as our consciousness changed course.

Now, I do not know the hour that the monster first visited. Nor do I know if it had always been there, quietly listening to the sounds as I comforted myself to sleep. And as my foot dangled precariously over the side of the bed, I can not say how long its claw reached out and scratched at it. What I do remember, even now, almost thirty years later with my mind cluttered with memories of years gone by, is the terror that seized my heart as I awoke to my skin being torn from my ankle.

Over the years, I have encountered other assorted monsters and creatures that take refuge in the night. There are the troll like beings, with their pudgy bodies and green eyes that follow you closely as you make your way to the bed. They live in the closet. They peer up from under neath the door to see if you are resting comfortably before they slowly turn the door knob and open the only barrier between a sleeping you and them. Their feet make the light thumping noise across your floor when they inch closer to the bed. That's probably what woke you up last night. That small, quiet sound. The sound of danger that is so faint, you shake your head and dismiss it before you curl back to sleep. Don't ever do that. I refused to accept that I heard it one night. That was a long night. That was the night that a smelly beast climbed onto my chest and robbed the air of the oxygen I needed.

As a child, I was more cognizant of the dangers that lurked underneath my bed. Void of the cynicism of adulthood, most children know to keep a watch out for things that go bump in the night. Their tiny ears know to signal to the brain that the noise they hear is not the house settling, but instead a slithering corpse that is crawling down the hallway towards them. A child's imagination will give them a close view of the black sludge that covers the naked body of the beast. It will tell the young one, that this being....this thing that drools and growls, all the while trying desperately to reach its goal of tearing the flesh off the inhabitant of the bedroom, is a slithering corpse of what once lived. A child's imagination is a powerful thing. It is the third eye to the soul and its job is to protect its young host against all that is evil. It will wake the child and show it the deadly eyes and outstretched hand. It will force him or her to scream for help. To scream until lights flood the room.

Yes, I have always been afraid of the dark. Even before I was eight, before I felt the thing underneath the bed, I was apprehensive of the creeks and groans of my home. Something within me spoke out and said that I was to remain vigilant. It ordered me to keep a watchful eye all hours of the night. However, it wasn't until that fateful event that I paid it any heed.

Last night, overcome with sleep deprivation, I closed my eyes and returned to the dream state that I knew as a child. Last night, after I made the mad dash from the lamp, through the blackened living room, past the monster nestled comfortably in the middle of my couch, I laid in the dark and closed my eyes. I now sleep in the middle of my bed. I am barricaded with pillows on all sides. A nightlight shines from my bathroom, illuminating the various corners between me and the closet door. But, last night, in the dark, during the sleeping hours, I felt a hot breath drift across my cheek. I stirred and settled back down into my desired slumber. A heart beat later, not only did I feel the hot moisture of death traveling from the side of my face towards my neck, but I could smell the stagnate odor of decay. Gasping, I sat up in bed.

But, you see, my screams fall on the walls of my empty home. They are absorbed by the carpet that covers the floors. There are no ears that belong to concerned parents that will come running to flood my small bedroom with light. So, I had no one to save me from the thing that hovered over me. The thing with the red eyes and the yellow teeth. The creature....the monster with the long black hair. It threw back its head and laughed a maniacal laugh.

I have always been afraid of the dark. Always. And I have reason to be.

Patrick and The Holy Grail

It had been two weeks since my friend had died. Two weeks since I had been sitting in my cubicle at work when I'd received the phone call.

"Hey Wes," he said on the other end of the phone. "Patrick died. He just....died."

That's basically what had happened. Patrick, mid conversation, just dropped. There was no dramatic pause to indicate anything was out of the ordinary. No ominous music played in the background. One minute he was saying he wasn't going to make the move from North Carolina to Maryland and the next he was, well....

......dead.....

I was shocked. The air that I breathed became shallow and stale. My heart continued to thump, only it increased. My brain searched for ways that the caller could be lying to me. A practical joke, maybe? The wrong Patrick, perhaps? This couldn't be my Patrick. The one who had bartered for a Child's Play Doll so he could send it to me in time for a birthday party. Not my Patrick, with his hazel eyes and his crooked smile, that would accept my random text messages and would reply with the most bizarre responses.

Hey Patty.... Ya ever wonder if maybe the reason I see shadows everywhere is because I'm really insane?


Nah Wes....It's like that saying about women with big feet. Ya'll just have big egos....

Not him. Not the guy I could sit and tell the story of the man who decided to shoot his wife to add spark back in his married to. Not my Patrick who understood with perfect clarity that my mind works on the oddest levels and that my attention span rivals that of a three year old.

No, that man in Maryland, the one that they were unsuccessfully able to administer CPR to was a different Patrick. My Patrick was traveling back to North Carolina. My Patrick, all 6 feet of him, had just asked me to marry him the night before.

"Come on Wes," he laughed. "No one understands you like I do."

But, it was my Patrick. My Patrick that I never told anyone about because I wanted to keep him to myself. I never wanted to share him with anyone. He was my special person. My person that had been there when the worst thing that could ever happen to a woman had, indeed, happened to me. He was my safety net. The one who listened when I was too tired to be angry about anything. The one who sat, nodding enthusiastically, when I discussed my story ideas. His reassurance was what I reached for when I felt too insecure to be in my own skin.

And now he's dead.

That was two weeks ago. Actually, it will be three weeks tomorrow. But, last week, it was two weeks ago. Last week it had been two weeks to the day when I contacted the Holy Grail about dinner. The Holy Grail had said yes, and I realized (a day later) that it might not be a wise decision to ask the last guy that broke your heart out when you are grieving over the death of a close friend.

But, if I were the type to make wise decisions, I would never have any subject material for this blog.

So, this past Thursday I met the Holy Grail for dinner. It was a nice restaurant in a nice part of town. The Grail didn't know what was going on in my life. My contact to him had been out of the blue. We had not spoken, except for the occasional random text, in months. So, after we had ordered, I was not the least bit surprised when he asked me what was going on.

And I was nothing but truthful in my explanation. "See, I'm using you. Just using you. My friend died recently. And it, well...it sucks. I need what he gave me. I need that one person that I don't have to be anything other than me with. I need someone who knows that I have all kinds of quirks and accepts and understands why I have them. I need that accepting person to allow me to lay my head on their shoulder. I need to be listened to. I need to ramble. My attention span is all over the place and I don't want to have to control it. I need the comfortable silences. I don't want to have to perform. I don't want to have to make someone laugh or be witty or carry on an analytical conversation. I just need a couple of hours where I am me. That's it."

The Holy Grail understood. Just as I knew he would. For all our ups and downs, he does understand me. He gets me. So, the rest of the night was spent in casual conversation. Light hearted topics. Music. Daily routines. Kid stuff. It wasn't until the dinner was over that Patrick was even brought up again.

"It's tough when someone so young dies," The Grail said. "It leaves us with a lot of anger and fear."

Yes," I replied. "But, that's not the part I am dealing with. I'm dealing with the isolation. I kept him to myself. He was my person that I hid from everyone else. I discussed my heart, imagination, and everything else in between with him. And I kept him to myself so much, he remained so hidden, that I have no one to grieve with me. I am isolated now. And that is what sucks the most."

Again, he nodded. He understood, just like I knew he would. And as I drove home from my much needed dinner, I couldn't help think about how ironic my night had been. How, in my grief over my friend, my soul mate, I had reached out to the one man that has broken my heart like no other. Funny. I could have had the same conversation with anyone. But, I know it would not have had the same comforting affect that the talk with The Holy Grail had. It just goes to show you how funny the heart can be.

Huh....who knew....

Breathe In. Breathe Out.

She was sick. She had, in fact, been sick for a long time. She'd hidden it well. She would remain stationary when breathing became too difficult. Conversations were cut short. Grocery shopping only occurred twice a month instead of weekly. She confined herself to her bedroom on most days to spare the rest of the house the smudges of her fingerprints. Microwave dinners replaced home made meals. She kept her life simple. Clean. Small. She did as little as possible. Too much energy spent would cause shortness of breath and chest pains that would prompt her husband to call for an ambulance. She didn't want medical help. She had already refused the referral to a specialist. She knew that would be the beginning of procedures and medicines that would ensure she got better. Healthier. She'd live longer. And she didn't want that. She preferred death to the constant debilitating strain of life.

Over the years momma had tried to hurry death along the best way she knew how. She'd taken a handful of pills, lay down, and pray not to be awoken by the sun in the morning. Each failure confirmed the belief that she was no good. No good as a human being, mother, wife, or friend. She was so no good that she couldn't even kill herself. Waking up would fill her with such agony, that she was forced to wrap herself tight within her own arms. Rocking back and forth, she would use the movement to calm herself. She would try to convince herself that outside her bedroom door lived the normality of life that she'd never been able to experience. She'd lay there for several hours crying and cursing the day that she did not wanted to see. She felt betrayed by the sun that greeted her each morning, showing her she was still alive. She'd ride this wave until she couldn't do anything other than leave her bed and proceed to survive the day. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Eat. Bathroom. Sleep. Repeat.

When momma could no longer carry the weight of her own mind, she would call me. Day or night. Time did not matter. I accepted the ringing as a call to arms. As her daughter, it was my job to bare her burden until she was able to lift it again. Her anguish became mine. Her tears flowed down my cheeks. I could only reassure her of my love for her. She would reminisce about the days when I lived with her. Our memories intertwined as we spoke of how I used to love her so much. I would listen as she tore through me with hate filled words. Each phrase uttered sliced through me like a blade, leaving me open and vulnerable for the next attack. I accepted the role of villain to her victim.

"Why don't you love me?" She'd inquire. "Remember when you used to love me? Worship me? Why did you leave me so young? I remember when you couldn't bare to be a part from me. Don't you?"

And I did. I did remember anxiously awaiting her arrival home from work. I could remember, with longing and fondness, sneaking into her bed at night. I could recall her arms reaching around and pulling me into her. I have performed the same ritual with my own children. Pulling their small bodies to mine. Taking in the scent of their hair. Allowing the rhythmic rise and fall of their chest to lure me back into a slumber.

I could not tell her that those precious memories of a child hood now past has been replaced with the nightly phones calls that break my soul a little at a time. My brain could not connect the mother that used to braid my hair with the woman who cried for death almost every night. If my mind were to ever make that connection, my heart would surely have broken into two.

"Momma," I said one night. "Your body was not meant to die by your hands. It was meant to survive. To thrive in a world full of elements that can kill it. Death is not an easy destination. The road that will lead you there is filled with nothing but pain. As much as you push your body to the point it will break, your body will push back even harder. It will fight with all the strength it has. And your body is strong. If you refuse to admit defeat, if you do not give up your dream of death, you will end up far worse than you are now. Your body will turn on you. It will do everything it in its power to protect itself. You could become trapped within it. Unable to do anything but be."

She never heeded my warning. When her husband took the pills and hid anything sharp, she knew of no other way to actively try to kill herself. She was almost ready to accept defeat.

Almost.

The day the doctor informed her that the chronic illness she'd been living with for years had turned into a ticking time bomb, with her heart as the explosive, she almost clapped with glee. Here was her chance. She knew all she had to do was be patient and let nature handle the rest.

She wasn't prepared for the pain, however. As her heart grew larger in order to pump more oxygen to be carried through her blood stream, oxygen that her lungs no longer cared to give out, the sharp stabbing pain she felt on each unsteady pump, was too much for her. Unwilling to give her any pills, the doctors prescribed patches that barely reduced her pain.

Without any forethought or understanding, momma had sentenced herself to hell.

Unable to take it anymore, she agreed to see the specialists she had managed to avoid for so long. The news was not good. In fact, the prognosis was grim.

"You have two choices. You can continue on as you are. We will do everything in our power to make you comfortable as possible. Or you can have surgery to alleviate the pressure building within your heart. However, with the surgery you will face many risks. You run a high risk of never waking up. The chance of you regaining the ability to breathe on your own is slim. Very slim."

And there it was. The opening she had been striving for. The guarantee death she had prayed for for years. The pain. The sadness. The grief over having to live when all she wanted to was die was on its was to loosening its grip on her.

Death was welcoming her in.

"I want you to make the decision," she said to me. "Tell them to take me off the machine. Pull the plug. Whatever. Let me die."

Suicide by daughter. This was the plan. No longer able to be an active participant in her own demise, momma was handing the task to me. She trusted that I would instruct the doctors, without hesitation, as she requested. She believed I would make the right choice. Her choice.

What momma failed to realize, what she never suspected, was that each attempt she made on her own life, each phone call that stirred me out of my sleep, or disrupted my living, each time she questioned my love for her, she had planted and cultivated a seed of hate within my soul.

She could not possibly have fathomed that after years of hearing her desperate plea  for death and after repeatedly defending my love for her, after all these years, I wanted nothing more than for her to feel the pain and mental anguish that she had inflicted on me.

Death was a beautiful release that she would never get the chance to experience on her terms.

The day of the operation arrived. And just as the doctors predicted, she began to flat line as soon as her breathing tube was removed.

We sat around a conference table in a room reserved for the difficult decisions that most families do not want to make. The doctor sat across from me. Using words like "stroke", "pain", and "seizures", they described the struggle momma was facing if she were to remain on the machine. You have to make a choice, they said. They referred to her quality of life as they placed the appropriate forms in front of me, that when signed, would end her suffering.

"No." I said quietly.

Two weeks went by. Two weeks filled with seizures, morphine drips, antibiotics, steroids, and tubes running here and from there. By the end of the first week momma had swelled so much that the doctors began to discuss ways of alleviating pressure. Quality of life was again discussed.

"No." I said quietly.

Night and day, I sat by her side. I watched the monitors tell the story of her heart rate. I saw the I.V.s feed her fluids and medicines. I observed the machine breathe for her. In and out.

Her husband visited daily. Always begging for me to release her from her prison. He approached the doctors, demanding the machine be turned off. But the decision was mine and mine alone.

At the end of the second week, I stood by the hospital bed and looked down on the bloated shell that was once momma.

"Your body is a machine that was created to live. It is a living breathing machine. The more you push it to die, the more it will push back to live. All you had to do was live. You did not have to love. Just live. Breathe in. Breathe out. Eat. Bathroom. Sleep. Repeat. But, you couldn't do that. Could you? You couldn't just survive. No. You had to destroy. You had to destroy your body, your life, and me. You should have never given me the power that you didn't posses. It was your body's decision when to die. Not yours. Not mine. I don't know where your headed, but I hope it's better than the hell you're in now."

With no forethought or remorse, I gave the order to turn off the machine.

Four hours later her body decided to die.