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| industrial, libyan, sumerian, charlie croker, and letters, richard bright, derek, bad, don cheadle, adrenalin, jarule real name, john terry, | God, I'm numb. The problem with pancreatic cancer is that it works too quickly. It sucks up life, eating out bill raymond any soul left, leaving a body quiet, riddled with pain, clouded with morphine. Walking into her hospital room for the first time, it was the scent that hit me. Cleansers, antiseptic.... Sterilization at its finest. "Mom...?" I whisper, bill raymond my voice quiet, hidden against all the tubes running through her body. "Oh... bill raymond Becca... you're here, did you bring Suzanne?" My own goddamn mother... flesh and blood... my MOTHER... and she can't even remember my name. I slide out of the room, sobbing, terrified, alone. Six months was a long shot; she really only lasted six weeks. I spent the whole time by her bed, holding her hand, stroking her hair, refusing to show my tears. |
Best Mature Paysites
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| Be ready." NO. I'm not going to believe it, I'm pleading with him to tell me why, tell me what's wrong with her. "I'll be there around noon," is all he says. Hanging up the phone, I promptly run outside and throw up in the libyan bushes. On the ride home from camp, I ask him point blank--"She's pregnant, isn't she?" The innocent, easy explanation for her sudden stomach problems. Looking at him, waiting for an answer, I see his eyes shifting with pain, see his search libyan for the right words, eternity flattening out libyan with each passing mile. Those flowers on the side of the road... they would look so nice on my dresser... "Tiffany.... You mother... is dying. Cancer. She has six months to live." Purple flowers? Would those look better than the yellow? |
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