An unwelcome bluish tone has started creeping into her fingertips, which are cold to the touch. I rub harder, desperate to knead some color and life back into my mother's frail hands. But even as I do it, a terrible pang deep inside me tells me that my efforts are futile. Margie's chest is heaving deep breaths, but only with the mechanical aid of a ventilator. A large, white plastic tube is taped into her mouth, along with several smaller blue ones.
Clear IVs run into both arms.
Margie's hazel eyes have lost their usual color and focus. They stare blankly at the ceiling now. And she cannot talk to me in her rich Southern drawl, filled as it normally is with hope and optimism. I do not know if Margie can hear my cracking voice. The nurses tell me when someone is in a coma, you just can't be sure.