The Worst Kind of Worry

March 29, 2010
Everyone worries. It's a natural, human thing to do; but sometimes, like most things in life, it gets to be too much. I know that I will never forget how much that worry became and how it almost broke me.
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I was sitting at the computer just wasting time. I had music playing and I felt fine. My family was sitting upstairs watching television, except for my mother, who was with her friend in the hospital. I visited my usual sites, when I had a notification on one of them. It was a journal entry from one of my friends, titled "Goodbye." I knew what it was about; my friend wasn't exactly the most rational person. I read the journal entry, and before I finished it, I already had tears streaming down my face. My friend, whom I'd been worrying about for months, confirmed my greatest fears. That journal was the equivalent to a suicide note. I almost went into panic; I've seen what suicide does to people. My brother lost his best friend to suicide and I wished that pain upon not even my worst enemies. When I read that journal entry, I wasn't thinking about me; I was thinking about my other friends, who were also friends with this person. I knew I could deal with the suicide of my friend. I've been through a lot and I know I'm strong enough to deal with it; I've seen it done before. But, being myself, I was terrified. I ran upstairs, trying not to cry, and explained what happened to my father. Then, he looked at me, and told me something I hoped wouldn't happen. My mother's friend, who was in the hospital with cancer, wasn't going to make ith through the night. Her time was almost gone; the clock was ticking. Right then, at that moment, I worried more than I think I ever had before. I worried about my friend, about my mother, about my mother's friend, and about her friend's kids. Never before in my life did I ever feel so worried. It was just too much. I did what I could to help my friend; I e-mailed her numbers of suicide hotlines and runaway shelters. Then, still extremely worried, I tried to go to bed. I opened my bedroom window, even though it was pouring rain outside, and just thought. I curled up with my pillow and blanket, staring outside and listening to the rain as it hit the ground. I watched the sky swirl with darkened clouds and watched rain fall in silver droplets. I felt the cool wind on my face and my cat curl up next to me. I slowly drifted into a light sleep.
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The next day in early afternoon my mother finally came home, her eyes pink and swollen. Her friend had died early that morning. Her children, both full-time college students, were orphans. They lost both of their parents to cancer. I knew my mother's friend was no longer suffering, but then I worried about her kids. They had to pay the mortgage, taxes, medical bills, and for their college educations. They had to take on everything without help from anyone else.
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I, being myself, will do anything and everything I can to help them. I worry a lot; it's a known fact. I hate worrying, but sometimes good things come out of it. When death comes into play, no worry can be worse. You never know when someone's time will run out, when their clock will stop ticking. Without a doubt, the worst kind of worry is the worry felt about people you care about when death becomes part of the equation.

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