Yesterday and today

When I walked into her room yesterday, her eyes flashed with recognition. Her lips struggled unsuccessfully to make words. She lifted her head from the pillow and pointed to something over my right shoulder. Her body trembled. Her hands shook. There was something she urgently needed to tell me. She got a squirt of morphine every hour, with no effect, until finally they doubled the dose. I don't know what she wanted to say, but I do not doubt its significance. Today when I arrived I was told that she was "resting comfortably." That has been my observation as well. Her eyes are closed. She's breathing softly. She doesn't know I'm here. We talk about yesterday as "a hard one." But when all is said and done, that is the day I will remember. Possibly the last all-out attempt to be heard.