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7 Modern Death “You’ll miss me and I’ll miss you. Let me sleep,” she said. I badgered the corridors, begging advice. Father watched TV, vigorously, by her bed. Nurses urged paper cups of colored meds, but she took only painkillers they spliced. “You’ll miss me and I’ll miss you. Let me sleep,” she said and drifted off. I panicked in the dreadful state of Florida at death’s imprecise approach. Father watched TV, vigorously, by her bed, while I questioned strangers: Bring her home, instead? “No!” Father wept when I spoke of hospice. “You’ll miss me and I’ll miss you. Let me sleep,” she said. The failure of the pacemaker led to technicians disconnecting the device. Father watched TV, vigorously, by her bed. “Why am I alive when I want to be dead?” my mother moaned, articulate, concise. “You’ll miss me and I’ll miss you. Let me sleep,” she said. Father watched TV, vigorously, by her bed. ...

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