Death in three parts. My mother is dying, whether she opts for "treatment" or not, her body's cells are deteriorating rapidly. She is almost 92, so this is not a tragic, unthinkable death. Like a hardy plant succumbing or a mighty tree turning grey, with bare branches the year long, all should be so lucky to know a life well-lived. A life of 90+ years is a gift, a matter of luck and moderate living, nothing too extreme. If we could view this advanced stage of life--including death-- with optimism, that would be wonderful.
Then, there is the other death--a drug overdose of a young man at 28 years old. A sickness--drug addiction--turned his brain into a poison-seeking machine programmed for destruction. Dead, lying alone in a dingy room somewhere, in the darkness forever. Herein lies the true tragedy. Yet nature has worked in its mysterious manner. This brain was only to last less than thirty years.
My son is also dying. He may not know it, but I do. Another victim of deadly addiction, alcohol in his case, no less able to control the progression of the disease than my mother is able to stop the cancer cells.Why must parents and siblings watch this painful demise? Why must we pick up the random pieces of a life not lived? Why must we bury the young while we slowly die of the malignancy of torment, pain, and disbelief?
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