My mom had stopped screaming.

She had stopped slamming her brittle, twisted fists against the walls and doors and kitchen cabinets.

She had silenced the guttural wails of anger and frustration that have echoed in my heart ever since her dementia took over our lives nearly a year ago today.

She had run out of greeting cards and old love letters to tear up, crumple, rend and hurl at the floor.

In fact, she had stopped throwing things altogether.

Yes.

The uncontrolled suffering had finally stopped.

Now, my mother was crying softly.

Sobbing.

Brilliant blue eyes leaking a steady stream of tears onto the table between us.

I knew what was coming.

“Why am I still alive?” she asks.