After the commotion had ended, after everyone else had left Mrs Dawson's
hospital room, I returned.
I walked to the head of the bed and gazed at her face. It was smooth
and relaxed, bearing no trace of pain or emotion. Her skin was blue as summer
She was certainly dead.
A few minutes earlier she had been very much alive. Nearly 90, frail
but graceful, intact of wit and wisdom, Mrs Dawson had endured 10 days of
hospital life—unflattering gowns and fake eggs for breakfast and what
she decried as the most uncomfortable beds in God's kingdom.
Singer CD. Passing Through. JAMA. 2003;290(23):3043–3044. doi:10.1001/jama.290.23.3043
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