She was dying – actively dying in that room – that horrible room in the Medicaid-funded, locked dementia facility. Jail really. Sharing the room with the woman with advanced Alzheimer’s who raved through the night and tried on my mother’s clothes and wrote in my mother’s planner. That horrible, dirty room, hot and humming from the two oxygen machines. The windows that would not open. My mom actively dying – terminal restlessness they called it, the hospice people who finally made things make sense. My mom in the little twin bed with the waterproof mattress. My mom trying, trying, trying to keep getting up because if she stayed down she was not going to make it. My brave mom who always told me to put one foot in front of the other. My mom, her face bruised from crashing to the floor already. I lay down next to her to keep her from climbing out. She reached over and covered me with her thin cotton blanket, patting me on my thigh like she did when I was little. “Are you warm enough, Nicki?” “Yes, Mom. I am just right.”