A happy young women suddenly feels stressed. She reacts. That’s my hand. The other looks just like it. It hurts. But not as much as she hurts inside. Imagine this happening to a $17 an hour residential staff because I’m long dead. Or short dead. Me? I help her, peel off her hands, talk her down. I am her Mom. I try to help her communicate her stress, emotion. What would a stranger do? We no longer talk about treatments and the c word called cure. And because of that, our children will live in hell until they meet us in heaven.