I planned to say something, but whenever I read it, I’m silenced by this aching poem by Jack Gilbert:
BY SMALL AND SMALL: MIDNIGHT TO 4 A.M.
For eleven years I have regretted it,
regretted that I did not do what
I wanted to do as I sat there those
four hours watching her die. I wanted
to crawl in among the machinery
and hold her in my arms, knowing
the elementary, leftover bit of her
mind would dimly recognize it was me
carrying her to where she was going.