On the plate across from me, chilly and unattended, were mashed potatoes and gravy. Another night spent by myself.
Two months ago, the doctors gave Smith's mother six weeks to survive. It was a marvel she had survived after their forecast. The poison had spread like wildfire throughout her body, weakening her and turning her into a flimsy, frail shell of the formidable woman she once was. Stupid cancer. It was the world's worst illness. How many more victims would I witness?
Even so, she wasn't that elderly. She was still zealous for life at the age of 56.
I was really sorry for Smith. One of the worst things a person can experience is watching their parent fall apart. I should be aware. My mother's illness was in and out of remission for three years.
