That is why a new contraption has joined the long list of "assisted living devices" (e.g. the amplifier that was meant to convert her whisper to a booming voice, which she tried once, and the wrist band she wears with a button that summons 911 if she presses it). This saliva removal device needs to be used frequently during the day, but it doesn't help when my mother is asleep and wakes up choking on accumulated saliva that has slid to the back of her mouth and made its way to her trachea. Those occasions, which occur during the day and night as she sleeps on and off, result in coughing fits which are the most distressing and awful experience to endure. Saliva can be deadly, I suddenly realize. It strikes me that when the simplest functions, like blinking our eyes involuntarily 15,000 daily and swallowing our saliva more than 500 times a day, fail us that every moment of life becomes a struggle. It is the most difficult thing I have ever had to face to watch parents descend into this struggle and to feel so powerless to help them.

My mother's 80th birthday is only 38 days away. A few years ago she was---unlike my father---the picture of health. We all expected her to cruise into her eighties enjoying, participating, traveling and staying actively involved in the lives of her children and grandsons. But those expectations have been replaced by the urgency of cherishing each moment and having few expectations of the future.

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