Everybody wants to tell you how to live. Nobody tells you how to die.

Angelus Rosedale Cemetery, photo by Philip Houtz

The door to my mother’s apartment was standing open when the medication manager showed up for the morning check-in. Mom was sitting in her chair, smiling a little. Apparently she had been sitting there all night. She wasn’t able to speak or stand up. She was wearing a medical alert device around her neck but she didn’t use it. Mom hated that thing.