into a container. The liquid gushing from her mouth was
unlike anything I’d seen or felt before. It was greenish and
inconsistent—more like gelatin with small dark squares
suspended inside. This was a product of the disease, a form
of gangrene resulting from the cancer’s silent, insatiable
appetite.
It was her life being eaten, chewed, spit out.
Cleaning her that Saturday, I noticed her eyes glazing.
She’d slipped into a coma. We got her to the hospital.
Most gut-wrenching were the occasional sounds Ana
made during the night: more than the periodic hand
movements; more than the sudden opening of her eyes,
pupils moving from side to side as if focusing on something
in the room or seeming to establish contact before the lids
rolled back down halfway, the eyeballs fluttering into
5