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Show 389 "Do you think," the voice is pleading, and now breaking into sobs that have been held back too long during this long day, "that we killed her?" Do I think that they killed her? This is an impossible question, skewered with grief for Georgia and the agony of my own disease. My thoughts have suddenly turned an angry comer and are crashing hard against finality. I am wondering just how much like me Georgia was, in fact. Did she have a psychiatrist tell her she was happy too, when she surely was not? Did she have nurses and doctors angry with her also, during vulnerable moments, for her misbehavior while on nasty drugs like Versed? Was she offered the ultimate solution when she was on massive amounts of Versed? Was she also told how very much her treatment was costing her family, the hospital and society at large? Could she see no other solution to the grinding poverty? But in the face of all this, did not her friends help her plant yellow daffodils of hope? Did no one teach her to paint sfrong totems against bad medicine? Did she not have the five most important hands up, supporting her when she most needed it? And were there not other hands helping hold high in the air those most important five when they themselves weakened and wavered? "No," I am saying. "You did not kill her." I am choking on these hollow words of comfort, all I have to offer this person. They are words this person wants to hear - needs to hear. |