On a good day, Mom can enjoy the roses that the flower man brings to her door. Rosio arranges them in a vase within her line of sight, and puts one bloom near her in bed. On a good day, Mom can recognize her dog or her children. But most days she can't. And on bad days, we listen to her labored breathing and her whimpers as Rosio tries to get her to drink some Ensure or take her meds or comb her hair or just hold her hand. It is not an easy time for anyone. At the moment I am planning to leave on Sunday, but I could change my mind.