They call it hospice.
I call it a lie.
They said she'd pass peacefully,
but they let her die.
Not in comfort.
Not with grace.
They drugged her slowly,
till breath left her face.
My mom was a fighter.
Couldn't speak much,
but she could feel.
Gave thumbs up, nodded "yes,"
she knew what was real.
They said "quality of life,"
but stripped it away.
With morphine, Ativan,
three times a day.
No consent. No alarm.
No time to prepare.
Just silence, excuses,
and cold vacant stares.
She wasn't in pain.
Not until they said so.
She wasn't "transitioning"
till they made her go.
They said, "Comfort meds,"
but that comfort kills.
My mom weighed a hundred pounds,
you don't need that many pills.
They told me hospice would help.
That she'd be safe.
Instead, they gave her a coma
and called it fate.
She had faith in God.
And so did I.
But I watched as they played Him
deciding when she'd die.
She wasn't ready.
Neither were we.
She sat up watching TV
just days before peace ceased to be.
No call. No warning.
Just a final breath.
And a nurse with no tears
to declare her death.
I wanted her to go on God's time.
Not theirs.
Not with syringes,
and blank, empty stares.
They call it hospice.
But I've read the signs.
This wasn't care.
This was a crime.
So now I speak,
for those who can't.
For every silenced patient,
for every final chant.
Hospice?
You mean silence in disguise.
I watched my mother suffer,
while they fed us lies.
But I won't be silent.
Not now. Not ever.
She deserved more
And I'll fight forever.
Until justice comes.
Until truth rings through.
She was more than a patient.
She was my mom.
And they knew... read more