French toast never gave anyone such a hard time as it is giving my mother right now. She is re-learning how to swallow and every bite is a struggle. If anyone walked into the kitchen right now they would think to call an ambulance, but I know that this level of choking she can handle. I can see her incision, a long hook starting above her ear and ending at the base of her throat. Red and black and yellow, if it wasn’t my mother I would be disgusted. I move to her other side, unshaved, her hair is the same coppery brown it was before. She looks almost the same from that angle as she did only six weeks ago before this hellish adventure.
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AuthorI'm Emma. This is for a class. ArchivesCategories |