We were back at the hospital, answering the same questions, going though the same routine. Over the course of the last couple months, our time together had changed from shopping and errands to doctor’s appointments and medical procedures. Through it all, I stood powerless as I witnessed my mother getting weaker and more uncomfortable. What was supposed to be outpatient surgery turned into Barb being admitted when they found they couldn’t stent her endoscopically, and had to resort to inserting a temporary external tube the old fashioned way—by cutting into her abdomen. When I was able to visit her in recovery, she had a tube draining what looked like black tar out of her stomach into a bag. She was still out of as she lay there, mouth open in a twilight-induced haze. At each step, I felt more and more helpless, though watching her, I thought, that was the true definition of helplessness. She was at the mercy of this disease, unaware of anything going on around her, and unable to change any of it.
