(no subject)
When I woke up Thanksgiving morning, I was told that my Uncle Moe had died. I had truly believed that he would last just one more day, just one more day so that he could die surrounded by all the people he loved. It comforted me to know that he would at least get to see his whole family before he went. In fact, I wanted to visit him during the school week, but I decided to wait it out until Thanksgiving. Maybe I should have missed a little school. I didn't get to see him.
At least he isn't suffering anymore, right? That's what I'm supposed to say. That should be comforting. Nope, he's not suffering anymore. And that is a wonderful thing.
I guess Thanksgiving is never going to be quite as mirthful as it used to be.
He didn't have to die. If he had just paid more attention to his own illness, if he had stopped worrying about Aunt Pauline for a minute so that he could help himself, then he could have at least given himself some more time. He kept worrying about what Aunt Pauline would do (now that she was suffering from Alzheimer's) if he were gone, so he let himself go, and go, and go. And what was the point? He can't take care of her anymore! He's dead!... Grandma told me that his last words were something along the lines of, "Who is going to take care of Pauline?"
I feel like I am swimming in an ocean of death. I am Leonardo DiCaprio hanging on the edge of the bureau because that stupid girl is taking up the whole thing, and eventually I can't hang on anymore. So I plummet slowly to the ocean floor and am suffocated by the overwhelming force of death. I visited Carol Kochenback a few days before she died, when she was already begging to be killed rather than suffer anymore. Then Katie's dad died. Just a week ago was the memorial service for the ALS patients. Now, Uncle Moe is gone. Aunt Pauline probably won't fall far behind, only she'll forget who I am first. What next? Who is going to die next? Who's funeral am I going to sing at?
You know, I'm not afraid of my own death. Death is simply an everlasting nothingness, which is definitely preferable to everlasting torture. But the death of others terrifies me. And the people who keep living, who have the duty to pick themselves up and get back to their daily routines, they terrify me.
At least he isn't suffering anymore, right? That's what I'm supposed to say. That should be comforting. Nope, he's not suffering anymore. And that is a wonderful thing.
I guess Thanksgiving is never going to be quite as mirthful as it used to be.
He didn't have to die. If he had just paid more attention to his own illness, if he had stopped worrying about Aunt Pauline for a minute so that he could help himself, then he could have at least given himself some more time. He kept worrying about what Aunt Pauline would do (now that she was suffering from Alzheimer's) if he were gone, so he let himself go, and go, and go. And what was the point? He can't take care of her anymore! He's dead!... Grandma told me that his last words were something along the lines of, "Who is going to take care of Pauline?"
I feel like I am swimming in an ocean of death. I am Leonardo DiCaprio hanging on the edge of the bureau because that stupid girl is taking up the whole thing, and eventually I can't hang on anymore. So I plummet slowly to the ocean floor and am suffocated by the overwhelming force of death. I visited Carol Kochenback a few days before she died, when she was already begging to be killed rather than suffer anymore. Then Katie's dad died. Just a week ago was the memorial service for the ALS patients. Now, Uncle Moe is gone. Aunt Pauline probably won't fall far behind, only she'll forget who I am first. What next? Who is going to die next? Who's funeral am I going to sing at?
You know, I'm not afraid of my own death. Death is simply an everlasting nothingness, which is definitely preferable to everlasting torture. But the death of others terrifies me. And the people who keep living, who have the duty to pick themselves up and get back to their daily routines, they terrify me.