We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
I’d discovered my hideout a few months before, when I chased a hare behind a mulberry bush at the foot of a large mound, about the size of a wheat pile at threshing time. Following the hare’s trail, I found a small hole in the rock, completely hidden from view by the bush.
By Anwar F. AccawiFebruary 1999Every spring for ten years, Da told me he was dying. The pattern was always the same. For the next three months he’d plan and revise his funeral, then patiently await his demise on July 15, the anniversary of Mother’s death. Despite his determination, the worst illness he could muster was a tiny patch of skin cancer one year, which the doctor removed during an office visit.
By Kay Marie PorterfieldJanuary 1999What I mean to say is: I want to forgive my ex-husband. I don’t want to die hating, or even resenting, him. We will never make love, never even kiss again. Never. So where is that song of forgiveness, reputed to be so sweet?
By Genie ZeigerDecember 1998The nurse leads me into the family waiting room, sits down on the couch beside me, and opens Mother’s chart. She says that Mother has congestive heart failure, a leaky valve in her heart, chronic lung disease, and osteoarthritis. In addition to this, the bone scan shows that the malignant melanoma on her back has metastasized into her pelvis, spine, and skull.
By Barbara L. FinchOctober 1998My father was diagnosed with cancer near his seventieth birthday, in September, and passed away the following April. During his illness, I made four trips back home to Westville, Illinois, where both my parents were born and raised.
July 1998My attitude is “I’m going to live until I die,” which is all anyone can do. I don’t see the value of having someone say, “You have four months to live.”And I don’t want to give that much weight to any one person’s opinion, whether they’re a seemingly enlightened, spiritual person or a super Ph.D. or an M.D. — fortunetelling has never interested me.
By Helen TworkovApril 1998It was late November, and I was visiting my parents. Dad was asleep in a rented hospital bed in my sister’s old room; he was dying of lung cancer. Mom and I talked over coffee at the kitchen table.
By Sandy GerlingJuly 1997Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today