In that last moment, she was squirming and crying. I became frantic, I opened the feeding tube and let it all drain out. Adrenaline shot through my body, I called her dad. I lifted her up, I grabbed her arms and hands, trying to ask her what was wrong. She starred at me with a blank look. Was it her taking one last look at her mother? Was it her sifting through her 3 months of memories? The wait was incredible, torture. I was blowing air into her mouth, yelling her name, she was blank–dead. The workers rushed her to the small local hospital, the said she was dead before they arrived. I had my one year-old in one arm and reached out to touch her cold, heavy body. She weighed so much more that day, in the dark room, our family passed her around for one last hug.