A Letter To Death

March 14, 2012

You should have warned me about your arrival. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not mannerly to show up without calling first? If I would have had warning, this wouldn’t be so hard.

I just want to know what I did to get this. What did my family do to deserve this torture? Is this just a game to you? Looking around at all the people, then just deciding to pluck one up and take away their life? If only you had been so kind to us.

All I want to know is: why? Did we forget to send you a card on your birthday? Didn’t say bless you when you sneezed? What? Why do you need to put us through this? You couldn’t just take his life. No, that would be too easy. You had to dangle hope in front of our faces.

At first, it was slow. We didn’t even see it until it was full blown. Forgotten keys here, a conversation that slipped the mind there. Nothing too noticeable. Then it got bad. The first thing to go was me.

That’s right. Because of you, I was wiped clean from his memory. My name, face, and memories together: Poof. Gone into thin air.

Then everyone followed. My siblings, parents, aunts, my grandmother. Followed by himself. He doesn’t know who he is, and I don’t even think he can talk much anymore either.

You are a cruel and terrible creature, sending diseases to do your dirty work. Cancer. ALS. And the disease currently working away at my loved one: Alzheimer’s.

He is still here, but it hurts to look at him. He is thin, so sickly thin you can’t not notice. When he sits, he shakes from his kidneys failing. All he does it sleep.

So, Death, I write this for my Grandfather, and for others who deal with what he is going through. I am writing this to demand you to look at the disasters that you cause, the complete and utter pain that you thrust upon all of us who are powerless to do anything. Look into your heart, or whatever it is that you have, and realize that this is wrong and should stop. Do it for my grandfather. Do it for my family. Do it for me and everyone else in my shoes.


A Granddaughter

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