Words, snatches of sentences, scrolled down. She tried to open her eyes to stop seeing them, but could not. From far away, she heard a faint voice and recognized it as her daughter Cary's.
Hanna, The Times' Sunday Magazine language expert, had been at the computer, writing her weekly column. The deadline was pressing, and her head hurt. It hurt a lot lately. Today she felt light-headed, her temples locked in a vise.
"I'll finish this," she said, "and then take a few Excedrin." She was in the habit of talking to herself. Words were her love and her livelihood, and never failed her. Just using them, even if only speaking to herself, made tasks lighter.
Her fingers clicked on the keyboard. "I thank my lucky stars," she wrote, "that English is my native tongue -- a truly marvelous language with a wealth of vocabulary to most precisely communicate my thoughts..." She read over what she had composed so far, and then in a fury of disgust, deleted it all. "Pompous!" she said. "Words, words! Why can't I fashion them into a decent column today?" She saw an arc of light... then another, before a shadow clouded her mind.
"Has there been lasting brain damage?" Cary said. "Will she come back?"
A voice Hanna did not know answered. "I'm sorry," it said, "I'm afraid there's not
much hope. She's not breathing on her own."
"Oh, what shall I do, Doctor?" Hanna anguished at the sob in Cary's voice. "She has a Living Will, but I just can't do that to her. Can we wait another twenty-four hours and see if there is some change by then?"
"We can," he said softly, "but there won't be."
Behind Hanna's closed eyes, the word PLEASE scrolled down, but refused to form on her lips. She heard her daughter crying, and not a word of comfort was she able to offer.