I was handling my emotions pretty well, I think, until I came to these lines:

Kate could have lifted [her mother] into the deep, warm bath, held her fast like a damaged child, but Kate did not. She didn't think she was afraid of dropping her, hurting her. Truly, she was afraid of seeing her, of holding her, revealed with nothing between them, of moving her poor body, shivering and small, forsaken, through the air into the water, through the water into the air...Kate could oppose the illness, fight it constantly, but she could not hold in her arms the open declaration of its dominion, anoint what it was doing and had done.

I have never been good with death, be it human or not. Last fall I lost a pet guinea pig - my first real experience with pet death, since my allergies and our small house had prevented us from ever keeping a pet in my childhood. Amaryllis was my treasured Peruvian Silky guinea, the one who loved to snuggle under my chin when I would hold her. She was by far the most affectionate of all our guinea pigs, and I loved her deeply. The day she died, she went very quickly; I noticed that she was sick in the morning, and by the time I got home at noon to take her to the vet, she was gone.

I did not react well. I screamed, and I couldn't force myself to go near the hutch. I stood in the far corner of the room, shaking and crying, unable to approach the lifeless body that had once held my sweet pet. I called Eric in hysterics, but even he could not convince me to get near enough to her to make sure that she was really dead. In the end, I hailed a passing maintenance man to check her for me and to cover her with a towel. Eric handled all of the burial procedure after he got home that evening; I couldn't look at her even once.

I am not proud of my reaction. In truth, I had greatly hoped that I would be able to control myself in that situation, especially since I had felt such a deep closeness to my little pet. Seeing my true reaction was humbling and painful. I was not the strong woman I had thought I was. In the end, I could react no more compassionately toward my pet than to a strange dead animal that had expired upon my front doorstep.

She was ashamed. There were times when the baby slept, or when Amy came by to play with him, when Kate could have bathed [her] and did not. She wanted a bath every day, in the tub if she was well enough, or in bed with cloths and sponges. These were measured recitals Kate could not perform.

I have had little experience with the deaths of loved ones. When I was nine, my grandfather died and I was too afraid to go near the coffin at the viewing. I was afraid of him in life, though, as well; he was a retired army soldier and football coach whose craggy face and rough manner kept many of his grandchildren in nervous awe. When he threatened to "eat you right up, you little polecats!", we didn't disbelieve him completely. I remember feeling embarrassed over my fear at the viewing, but not embarrassed enough to actually get near his body.

Last Christmas, Eric's great-aunt died of pancreatic cancer. We visited her on the eve of her death, sitting next to her as she lay upon her bed; she moaned, rubbed her face, and gasped for breath as we sat in solemn vigil over her last moments. It was the closest I have ever come to the moment of death, and I felt completely helpless and afraid. Though I was able to remain outwardly calm, I had a sinking suspicion that were she to expire before my eyes, I wouldn't be able to maintain the shaky control over myself that was already threatening to collapse. I didn't say anything to Eric; I didn't want him to have to deal with my weakness along with his own deep mourning.

As I read and cried, I thought of my own mother; how could I not? Our peace, relatively newfound, has deepened into a relationship so open and trusting that I can't imagine life without her. On the day that she dropped me off at college, leaving home for the first time, I almost forgot to hug her goodbye; she cried on the way home, but I never shed a tear. Now when I leave home after brief visits, I can't keep the tears from welling up behind my eyes. As I carry my own child in a pregnancy so identical to my mother's, I feel a bond stronger than any I've ever felt. We are a triangle - my mother, myself, and my baby. My child brings me closer to my mother as my future self, and I don't flinch when I see her approach.

It was not their physical similarity that paralyzed Kate, or the continuation of intimacy, but the momentum of hopelessness, the fact that they were beaten. What they'd endured was preamble. Her mother was instructing her now in the depths of sorrow just as she's once taught her the sounds of her letters.

To watch her die...oh, how can I even picture it? My mother was always the strongest one in our family, I think. Seeing her in pain was always earth shaking; once when she tripped over the doorstep and fell, hurting both of her knees, I almost cried myself over the sudden feeling of panic. Mom wasn't supposed to hurt; if she could cry, then how could I ever handle my own pains? When she battled cancer last year, the situation felt unreal in its strangeness. I couldn't be with her, and I was terrified that something awful would happen in my absence. In the aftermath, when she called me and spoke in a bruised, sore voice, I cried silently, not wanting to burden her further yet not being able to keep down that feeling of panic.

I need my mother. As much as this little baby inside of me needs me, I need her. I feel even more dependent on her than I did as a child; I need to know that she's there on the phone, in our house, where I can reach her when I need her. The connection grows stronger, not weaker, with each passing day. How would I react when the connection was severed by illness, by accident, by time? Would I panic, seeing death take her from me forever? Would I scream? Dear God, would I even be able to hold her hand and tell her goodbye?

As I paid my check and left the restaurant, wiping the remaining tears from my cheeks, I found myself trying desperately to focus on my parents as they are now - strong, healthy, and safe - instead of how they might be in the distant, tragic future. For the moment, we are all as safe as we could possibly be. I will hold the picture of her, smiling and rosy, in my heart until the day I die as a comfort and a ward against the rising fear that has been born in my heart. That picture is my most treasured possession.