“My God, my God, my God”

“My God, my God, my God,” she whimpered, curled up in a tiny 85-pound ball. 
Cancer . . .
Her children wanted her to continue treatments.
She . . . just wanted to die.

She was a fighter—had always been a fighter—so she fought.
She fought hard.
“As a kid, I was ugly,” she said.
She was mocked, had no friends, got her front teeth knocked out at age 11 defending her siblings.
She met a man, “who looked into my eyes,” she said.
He had looked into her soul and had seen her for who she really was. 
He got sick and she cared for him, like she had done for her eight siblings while her mom and dad worked.
He died.
She remarried, and he got sick, and she cared for him.

Now she was sick and she was still taking care of her family; she was fighting for them—except this time it was not just her teeth getting knocked out, it was her immune system.
Her hair was just growing back, her guts turned inside out, her appetite gone, and the pain . . . the pain was always there.
“I just want to die.”
She told her family not to visit to avoid further compromise of her non-existent immune system. 
She was alone . . . with her pain and her thoughts.
“My God, my God, my God.”

I sat in silence . . . and then finished her sentence, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”