"Though every one of us will die, we are remarkably unwilling to talk about it." After the hospice nurse increased my mother’s morphine drip to ease the feeling of drowning, my mom never spoke to me again. By then, her metastatic lung cancer had taken nearly everything: her strength, her vigor, her independence. What remained was breathlessness that came in waves, each one more frightening than the last. The morphine was meant to quiet her panic and soften the feeling of suffocation. It did. It