Seven years ago my mother called my sister and me to tell us she had cancer. The doctor gave her less than a year to live. Despite years of complicated mother-daughter relationships, we turned our lives around in moments and flew down from New York and Boston to be with her.
Our mother had never been one to bear up under pain and she dreaded the idea of being dependent. Hours after we arrived in Florida, she made us promise to kill her when “it became too much.”
When we tried to talk rationally—using words like illegal and jail—she gave us the same demanding glare we’d known since childhood.
You have to help me, she insisted. You girls know I can’t stand pain. Promise! Promise me now!
We, of course, promised. My sister and I had never been able to withstand the glare, and