She is dead.And all that talk about dignifieddeath was total bullshit. I didn’twant her to die. Period. WhatI really wanted was for her to livewhole. Well. Capable. Happy.But that was not in my power,nor in the power of any human—no doctor. No surgeon. No researcher.All we could do was try to make hercomfortable. To allow her a fewjoyful hours beyond the manyshe spent lying in bed. Mom triedto give me a reason why a trueomnipotent God would createsomething so broken, and sendher to us for such a short season.But I really don’t understand it.If there is a God and He did this,I don’t think I like him very much.Hey, God. Are you listening?The door to my room is open.But Gaga is in her usual spoton my pillow. Did she not knowshe could venture out into the hall—into the larger world? Or wasshe afraid to? Shelby never hadthe chance to venture out intothe larger world, at least not onher own. Did she miss being ableto? Would she have been afraid to?Suddenly, it strikes me that I don’tknow how she felt about stuff.I could tell when she was happy.But was she ever sad?
