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My mother's every exhale is

somewhere between a rasp

and a scream now.

Hospice says they'll bring

phenobarbital in the morning.

Between us we have

--new bottle of morphine

--the dog's phenobarbital

--three syringes of Parry's insulin

--methadone, Haldol, etc.

Parry and I discuss combinations.

We want the best for our mother.

We do not want

to fuck this

one up.

   -- October 22, +/- 2 a.m.







                              On the phone, my brother Whit

                              says Don't Google it.

My mother's every exhale is

Jane Mead

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