That was my dad. Three years ago, one of my good friends and easily the person I would have categorized “most born to be a mom” in the high school yearbook was diagnosed with systemic lupus. She was 32, with a 14 year-old daughter and an 8 year-old son who was profoundly autistic. She had waited to see a doctor until the pain was excruciating, the way moms of special needs kids tend to do. By then, aggressive pain management was required. She was put on Fentanyl patches. The morning they found her unresponsive, she was wearing seven of them.

I know she just wanted to stop hurting, and I know she was sufficiently intoxicated by the first to keep treating the pain without realizing she already had.

Her husband worked nights, so he was unaware of what was going on with her.

So freaking sad.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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