I spent a majority of my weekend writing, attempting to create a story out of thin air that was at times so thin a hole would wear through the middle of it. Had a discussion with a friend before we went to dinner about the story her family was creating around her grandfather's situation, which is that he is old and dying but not at a speed detectable to doctors. Everyone is working hard to keep him safe and comfortable which means he is suspended in a nursing home. She said the work they should be doing is taking him home and cutting off the medicine, the physical therapy and let him eat what he wants if he want to at all. But she knows there's little chance of that. In this country we choose to believe the story that cruelty and neglect is acceptable if implemented on an institutional level and that our desires about how we die are impossible. We deconstructed that idea for several minutes before it became clear that not only was there a huge hole in that story but that we are all willing to accept the holes because the void of the truth is much bigger.