Thoughts from the end of the world.

Home euthanasia in a pandemic

I hear stirring on the deck. Matthew is carefully lifting Rose up, wrapped in her blankets. He brings her to the car and lays her on the gurney. Normally, I would help, but COVID renders me useless. Resting a hand on Roses’s head, he says to me without turning, “you’re an angel.”

For the briefest second, I entertain saying “tell my kids that.” Angel is not a word I think I’ve EVER been called, not in 41 years. I am many things, but angelic is not one of them. Still, I am honored that they see me as such.


My body is strong and capable. Treating it poorly is not the answer to my sorrows. In fact, it almost seems like an insult to those who yearn to use their bodies but cannot.

2020 is not our year.

The world is in turmoil. COVID-19 has upended lives, devastated economies, and somehow drawn even sharper political lines in an already deeply divided country.


I’m tired of being told that I’m strong and resilient and all of the other things that people say. I am not strong. There is no alternative. If I break, to what end?

Let’s be candid for a moment

It’s ok that I’m not perfectly patient and understanding and sympathetic every minute. Even if Hazel does have cancer. It’s ok that I’m angry on the inside and stressed and didn’t want to play Go Fish. It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.


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