on death and dying

You know what kind of call it is. It's a Saturday morning, and you're sleeping late, yet somebody calls you and wakes you up. "I have a bit of bad news." No, I know that tone in your voice. I heard that sniffle. This is how you start every "bit of bad news" call. It's not a bit of bad news. It's a lot of bad news. Somebody died. Who? I remember all these calls. I remember where I am, whether I am sitting or standing, and what I was doing before I was interupted by said call. Before my mom even said who it was today, my mind was already miles ahead of her. Who was it? What happened. Dear God, please let it not be my grandmother. I don't know how I would deal with that. Not today. Not now. Not ever. Well, what am I doing about it? I should go see my grandmother now. I love her. Ahhh. Who can it be? She tells me. It's all unexpected. No it can't happen. This all a bad dream. Let me wake up. I hear rain pouring outside; it matches the tears my mom has pouring down her face right now. I immediately think of the last time I saw this person or the last mean thought I thought about the person. Why do we do this to ourselves? Is it to utterly torment ourselves about something death made it impossible to make better? We are humans. We are imperfect. That's the thing about caring. That's the thing about loving and putting yourself out there. It makes times like this worse. To love someone is to ultimately hurt a lot when they are no longer here on this earth.

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain
But I'd of had to miss the dance

Yes my life is better left to chance
I could have missed the pain but I'd of had to miss the dance -Garth Brooks