My neighbors across the street are good people. Salt of the Earth type. They had three sons; beautiful black-haired boys. The two eldest have grown up to do themselves and their upbringing proud.
The youngest, as beautiful and as smart as his brothers, was playing in front of his house one day, in the yard. He was about 4, I believe. A drunk driver drove right up into the yard and hit the boy.
He lived. He walked again. He even talks. Happy ending, right?
But he barely walks. He barely talks. He's a happy 'child' with little understanding of the world.
I realize that many people would condemn me for my attitude, but they would all be so much better off if the poor child had died. All he has is his ignorant happiness. Which he will lose once his parents die and he's institutionalized.
A dog has more. A bird has more. If he had died, he'd be - in whatever 'heaven' you believe in. *I* believe he'd have reincarnated and had another chance at a meaningful life. His parents would have gone through the stages of grief and regained some happiness and meaning for themselves.
Instead they are all stuck - for decades - in the stasis of continual grief and continual sacrifice as they wait on this 'child' day after day with no hope of relief or reward for their efforts.
Do we do too much to save the afflicted, just because we can?
When I was eight, I contracted rheumatic fever. I so wish I had died. My life has not been happy, and indeed has had few happy moments. Any happiness I've had at all has been since I was 38, when I met my current husband. Nevertheless, most of it has been more mired in depression, illness, and incapacity than in happiness.
I think about all the sacrifices my parents made so that I could live. They didn't have health insurance, and they paid the hospital and the extremely expensive penicillin, and the home tutor. And the consequent dental bills. That penicillin is what ruined any hope I may have had for a healthy, happy life.
They didn’t know that. Medical science is continually pushing their miracles on us without any real knowledge of the consequences. My parents did the best they could. The very best. And everyone would have been so much better off if there had not been the ability - the penicillin - to save my life. While I am grateful to a point, and admiring of my parents, I wish I had not been forced to lead this life.
Ten years of penicillin means the dominance of yeast; Candida. The consequences of Candida are low blood sugar causing mental confusion (my parents believed that the rheumatic fever had 'burned up my brain') and lack of energy, leaky gut and irritable bowel causing constant systemic toxicity which eventually led to my hip arthritis.
Getting rid of it (once I even knew it existed) has been a lifetime of effort, deprivation, loss, physical disability, inability to think correctly.
It would be so much easier to eat what I want, to sit here at my computer all day, to NOT diet and exercise and try to get out, do new things, learn and accomplish.
So why am I fighting so hard now, in my old age, to improve my life and my health? I guess to try to justify it all. To make something out of the life my parents sacrificed for.