Death of a Child
I know I'm supposed to be a comedian. As my first post, I wanted something edgy and funny. But in a surprise turn, life suddenly headed south as I learned of the death of a close friend today.
He was only a child. His illness set in when he started kindergarten and progressed slowly through the first few years of school. He had always been quiet; the other children often made fun of him. It was not that he was ugly or stupid. He never knew why other kids chose to pick on him. But he found comfort in two places - the books he read and the woods behind his house. Both were chances to escape from the illness of which he was only acutely aware. He'd sit in his bedroom window or he'd roam the trees and undergrowth. He'd listen to the birds and insects, trying to imitate their calls. He always liked the mourning doves the best - their soft cooing reflected his sadness.
He was a dreamer. Even as he learned of his illness, he still forced himself to dream. He wanted to be an astronaut - to walk in weightless space, to explore the things that man had not yet contaminated, to find true solace in solitude. He had even put aside his allowance to go to Space Camp someday. But he never had the chance to go - the illness took that away. So he wanted to be a teacher - to encourage other kids to do what he could not. But the illness stopped him halfway through school. He could not finish the course.
Before he ever got to be a teenager, he learned of bills, family responsibilities, and the "tyranny of the urgent." He continued to die, and his illness increased its pace. He would no longer dreamed of space - his gaze would forever be focused on the cold pavement at his feet.His final moments were terrible. He tried with all his strength to fight the illness. He looked in all directions and called on any who could hear him. But it was too late.
The cancer of life had attacked him. It took away his ability to do things simply for fun, destroyed the hopeful optimism that life would always be okay, and worst of all - it devoured all of his dreams. His illness - many call it "Growing Up" - consumed his soul and left him cold, empty, and hopeless.
Doctors probably could have prolonged his life - but it would not have the quality he wanted. The financial debt would have strangled him. The pain of loss would have crushed him. The necessity to work a job that he would not have liked ... would have killed him.
And so I take a well-needed break from my daily job. The job I have because I needed one to move closer to family. Not the one for which I was hoping when I walked across the stage to get my college diploma. I take a moment to mourn the death of my child-friend. I only hope that he has found a happier place - one designed just for him. He deserves it.
He was only a child. His illness set in when he started kindergarten and progressed slowly through the first few years of school. He had always been quiet; the other children often made fun of him. It was not that he was ugly or stupid. He never knew why other kids chose to pick on him. But he found comfort in two places - the books he read and the woods behind his house. Both were chances to escape from the illness of which he was only acutely aware. He'd sit in his bedroom window or he'd roam the trees and undergrowth. He'd listen to the birds and insects, trying to imitate their calls. He always liked the mourning doves the best - their soft cooing reflected his sadness.
He was a dreamer. Even as he learned of his illness, he still forced himself to dream. He wanted to be an astronaut - to walk in weightless space, to explore the things that man had not yet contaminated, to find true solace in solitude. He had even put aside his allowance to go to Space Camp someday. But he never had the chance to go - the illness took that away. So he wanted to be a teacher - to encourage other kids to do what he could not. But the illness stopped him halfway through school. He could not finish the course.
Before he ever got to be a teenager, he learned of bills, family responsibilities, and the "tyranny of the urgent." He continued to die, and his illness increased its pace. He would no longer dreamed of space - his gaze would forever be focused on the cold pavement at his feet.His final moments were terrible. He tried with all his strength to fight the illness. He looked in all directions and called on any who could hear him. But it was too late.
The cancer of life had attacked him. It took away his ability to do things simply for fun, destroyed the hopeful optimism that life would always be okay, and worst of all - it devoured all of his dreams. His illness - many call it "Growing Up" - consumed his soul and left him cold, empty, and hopeless.
Doctors probably could have prolonged his life - but it would not have the quality he wanted. The financial debt would have strangled him. The pain of loss would have crushed him. The necessity to work a job that he would not have liked ... would have killed him.
And so I take a well-needed break from my daily job. The job I have because I needed one to move closer to family. Not the one for which I was hoping when I walked across the stage to get my college diploma. I take a moment to mourn the death of my child-friend. I only hope that he has found a happier place - one designed just for him. He deserves it.
posted by Matthew and Martha Morgan at 1:30 PM
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