By 1993 my mother was beyond heavily medicated and permanently confined to a bed at the University of San Francisco Medical Center. Years of neglecting and abusing her body brought heart disease that stints and angioplasty couldn’t fix, a series of amputations and several strokes. She lay mostly lifeless in a sterile, drab room - her life purpose having been diminished to that of a lab animal. There were days she would attempt to communicate, but all that came out was gibberish. Mostly, she was visibly uncomfortable, restless, and agitated. She could no longer fend for herself in any way that could sustain her life, and that wasn’t going to change.

Mom had a living will which clearly stated that this was not how she wanted to spend her days. I’ll spare you further details.

While some members of my family insist on bearing more responsibility than others for what happened next, it was a collective gesture. The choice had never been ours, it had always been hers. We merely honored it.

Jennifer and I visited her for the last time on Mothers Day that year to say our good-byes. “The call” came at 2am a few days later. I was 21.

You will never, ever be able to wrap your mind around even an inkling of what any aspect of that journey is like. I pray you never know it.