My dead mom was alive. She was laying on her side on a hospital bed. She had a large scar on her chest. The scar was cold when I touched it. She said the doctor told her that the only way she would survive would be to quit smoking and lose weight. I hysterically begged her to follow his advice. She said she would. Later I walked into a kitchen and she was smoking with my therapist. I was mad and made my displeasure known by ignoring my mom. My therapist, in between puffs, started yelling at me that I should know better than to think I can control another person’s behavior. “Have you not learned anything from therapy?”