I am in the land of the Golden Girls. I am experiencing the nightmare version of Golden Girls. My mother, 84, is afraid to die. She wants me to be with her. All the time. Who can blame her? I would feel the same way. I do feel the same way. She lives in what is loosely termed Assisted Living. Three times a day, she and a hundred or so other souls with broken bodies or minds sit in their wheelchairs, walkers, or the lucky ones who can stand, waiting for feeding time. Continue reading