She drags her body down the hall.
Dear Mother, she thinks.
The thing is, before you die you see everything in the hallway getting smaller and smaller despite the fact you're walking towards it and getting closer. You see a skinny wardrobe with a mirror and you would swear Narnia is inside. Your body feels broken and fragile and with each step you think poison might fly from your throat or wash through your brain and lungs. Each step is a giant leap and you pray you can keep the drugs down but it's a game against nature. Your arms are spindly and cant flap or fight or protect you like they once could. You are weak. You can't fight.
It is the feeling of growing sick and dying inside a young woman's body and for those hours and days you know the frosty and frigid fear coupled with the stoic resistance and brave of the elderly.
Just before you die, you know what is coming and it is all you can do to make it to the bed for a peaceful and painful surrender.
