Geraldine (Gerry) A. Weeks (1930-2023)

'Ring, ring'. On Saturday afternoon my wife and I were standing at the front door of my Mom's house in Wallingford VT. We had flown into Montreal the previous day, had spent the night at an airport hotel, and had driven from Montreal to Wallingford on Saturday morning. My sister answered the doorbell, holding Mom's small dog.

'Hi, Carol! Where's Mom?' • 'She's in the hospital.' • 'The hospital? What's she doing there?' • 'When I arrived yesterday I found her sitting on the floor of the kitchen. I called an ambulance and they brought her to Rutland Regional. She spent the night there and has been undergoing a series of tests. She's in a private room now.'

My sister gave me the hospital room number and my wife and I left immediately. The private room turned out to be a studio apartment for palliative care. Mom was lying in bed, 'sleeping', according to the nurse who explained her current situation, but it looked to me like she was in some kind of a coma.

A few years earlier she had signed an 'Advance Directive', specifying that if she could no longer eat or drink on her own, she would not be force-fed food or liquid. While we were visiting her that day, hospital staff delivered a full meal, but she did not even see it, let alone touch it.

Mom never came out of the coma, although she occasionally wiggled her toes, perhaps in response to the quiet conversation going on around her. She died three days later, 92 years old. They say there is no *good* age for a child to lose a parent and 'they' are right.

[See also Robert H. Weeks, Captain, USN, Ret. (1930-2008), October 2008.]