It's not death I fear

It's not death I fear; it's the dying. 

Having watched my mother decline in a few months through illness into delirium, her actual death was a release. Her life had become a prison: physically incapacitated, her mind haunted by shadows. Visiting her in hospital became an unpleasant duty. Would she be pleased to see me, ignore me, or accuse "how could you?" over and over? My mum died weeks before her body stopped breathing.