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A nurse stepped in and asked me to media keep my wailing down. I media don't know exactly what I was screaming, but apparently my howling was annoying other living patients. I wanted to hold her. My brother led me to the bed. I held her hand, and for a second I swear she squeezed back. That was all the denial my mind ever media afforded me. I knew she was dead. I knew she was not going to cheer for me at my graduation, or watch me get married. I knew she wasn't going to bring me groceries at my first apartment, or answer the phone when I called for advice. I didn't know how I could live life without her. I crawled into her hospital bed at home that day and thought I would never find the strength to get up. Funny how life just seems to press on. Some think I am strong for being able to live through such trauma. I am simply what she left behind. It has been almost a decade since I watched my mother die. I somehow found the strength to get out of her bed. I earned a degree from university she will never know about.
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