If I have learned nothing else through my 16-year-old daughter's death, it is that you can never tell your children enough times how much you love them.
The essential outrage of "Holocaust on Your Plate" was not that it injured feelings, but rather that it equated human beings with cows, pigs and chickens.
She was terminally ill with no possibility for cure. Her husband insisted we do everything possible to keep her alive. I couldn't help wondering: Did we launch her into some painful, hellish limbo?