“She’s dead to the world,” Mom would say of any small child she found sound asleep. It was one her favourite expressions along with “Don’t tell me!”, “Heavens to Betsy!,” and “I’ve got to get going.”
Dead to the world, figuratively, not literally, is how I found her on August 5, 2016; I tried to gently rouse her:
It became immediately obvious that she wasn’t going to waken, so I sat beside her for a half an hour, holding her hand in the silence. At least there’s no TV blaring, and she’s not in pain.
The situation was unchanged the following day, when I again sat beside her for close to an hour before leaving her to sleep in peace.
Earlier in the week, I had asked Eric to come for a music session, hoping the guitar and some singing might buoy her spirits. But I called and cancelled when I saw how she was. “Maybe another day,” I apologized on the phone.
There would indeed be one more day when the three of us would share a final hour of music together. But it was destined not to be August 6, 2016.
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