Four years ago, I woke up to a rainy day. Poro’s heavy breathing that I softly fell asleep to was no longer heard. I was hopeful that the breathing treatments had worked and we’d get another two, three weeks with her. I had hope that if there was a God, He would have mercy on me after taking away my nephew at the age of 19.

Walking to her bedroom, I felt the hallway was a little warmer than before. Opening the door I saw that PoRo was laying on her bed in her favourite periwinkle with white snowflakes and long sleeved dress. She was cradled in her father’s arms as he gently rocked her back and fourth. Her arm was draped over his shoulders, her fingers woven among his tee shirt neckline.

She had died in the night. Her tears had long ceased. Dennis told me he gave her double the dose of morphine, fentanyl and hydrocodone. The narcotics aren’t what killed her. He had given her the medicine after she vomited yellow bile.

I remember the police officer that came to the call told Dennis that he couldn’t help her any more. She was taken away in her favourite dress, her arm reached out, as if begging God to make her death painless and swift. . . For her loved ones. PoRo never really thought of others, but this time she did. That one final gift to others that we all make in the end when we know we’re goners. Her eyes were closed tightly, as if afraid of whatnot was coming next. What ten year old little girl wouldn’t?

We were expecting her to die, but still surprised when it happened. Can anyone really be prepared to watch their ten year old child die?

i got a kindle fire hd for my anniversary. the cake we had at lunch time was also wonderful. I’m still at work,so I have to pretend that I’m doing something worth while. *walks off whisling, hands in her pockets;