GloMag GloMagMay2020 | Page 5

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