Edwarda O'Bara dies: Los Angeles Times archival coverage MIAMI GARDENS, Fla. -- Day after day, year after year, two mothers sat vigil beside their children. They sang snatches of favorite songs. They told bright stories out of fragments of the past: Remember when you put that snake in my flowerpot? Remember playing with our old dog, Sweeper? In Florida, Kaye O'Bara would stroke her daughter's cheek. "Wake up, honey," she'd say. Wake up and we'll go to Disney. In Kansas, Shirley Bradley would clutch her son's limp hand. "Squeeze if you can hear me," she'd tell him. The daughter did not wake up. The son did not squeeze back. The children would not ever again speak or read or move. Their brains were damaged beyond recovery. And so the mothers made their choices. Kaye O'Bara chose to bring her daughter home, to sustain a life she still viewed as a blessing. Shirley Bradley chose to close off her son's feeding tube, to end what she saw as his suffering. Neither mother would presume to pass judgment on the other. Neither claims to have made the right choice. Just the choice that was best for her child. With the certainty of a mother's love, Kaye O'Bara knows her daughter is happy. Edwarda O'Bara lies in a sea-green nightgown, on sea-green sheets, in a room filled with angel figurines. Her gray-green eyes flick about, restless and unfocused. Her tongue lolls slackly in her open mouth. The TV is tuned to Jerry Springer until O'Bara notices and, clucking, changes the channel. "Edwarda doesn't like Jerry," she explains. She never did like anything smutty. When she was 16, a lack of insulin sent Edwarda into a diabetic coma. Her heart stopped for several minutes; her brain, starved for oxygen, began to shut down. She can breathe on her own, and cough, but not much more. Edwarda turns 52 tomorrow. On her birthday, as on every day, her mother will braid her long, gray hair with ribbons and pour a mixture of baby food, eggs, milk and yeast into her feeding tube. Edwarda coughs hoarsely, chest heaving. What's the matter, pumpkin? O'Bara asks, threading a tube down her throat to suck out the mucous. What's the matter? You want to turn over? O'Bara wrestles with Edwarda's motionless body, hoisting her up to change the pad on her sheet, adjusting her head, shifting her hips to avoid bedsores. "You're going for your ride, aren't you?" she says, in the singsong voice mothers use with babies. You're going for your ride! O'Bara, 77, is panting a bit with the effort of turning her daughter. She has done this every two hours, day and night, for 35 years. There you are! Miss America! O'Bara croons, fluffing the pillow. She nuzzles up to Edwarda's cheek. Oooh, I love you. I love you. As her mother kisses her, Edwarda's mouth curls into an awkward, fleeting smile.