My mother died two years ago. She took a fall, broke her wrist, then began to complain of back pain. Something dark caught up with her. Where was the point when the pain of living outgrew the pleasure? I don't know. I only know that my evenings and afternoons were spent with her in a dimly lit room or with my siblings debating or with medical professionals dithering. She hurt and no one knew how to help her. Her mind was fuzzy and getting fuzzier. I'd known it, but I'd never gotten anyone else to know it or accept it. Aging is a gray area none of us has studied well or wishes to study well. The doctors put her on percocet which only seemed to make her dull edges grow duller. She stopped eating. She stopped getting up to go to the bathroom. She asked for ambulances. She spent every other Sunday in the emergency room. She called people (mostly me) at all hours of the night. Sometimes she called people to tell them to call me. She died only a few short months after the original fall. When I picked up her death certificate, it made me angry to look at the causes of death -- "Adult Failure to Thrive" and "Dementia of the Alzheimer's Type". These were two conditions her medical professionals never addressed. They are two conditions waiting to attack me. I worry about my own forgetfulness. Am I getting fuzzy and will anyone ever take the time to notice? Why did I just open the oven with a dirty dish in my hand?! I wonder if I will end up like her losing my self to myself, disappearing into the gray folds of my gray mind. I miss my mom, but I see suddenly how easy it will be to forget her.