Death and Hate

  I realize that, in our lives, death plays for a team which cannot be beat. One day, sooner or later, every person will die. This is not a morbid thought, it is simply the truth. I have always accepted this fact, but that does not mean I hate death any less when it takes away the people I love, sometimes too soon. My grandpa died when I was 12 years old, and I was so far away from being prepared for it. I remember the day perfectly, and I remember not understanding why my dad was in such a hurry to get to the hospital that Sunday morning. I didn't know why he was acting like this day was any different than rest. We were going to visit Grandpa like we did every day, and the rushing did not make sense to me...he'd always be there, right? How saddened I am to recall the innocent mind of my 12 year old self. At that time in my life I did not know what true, soulful pain felt like; I did not know what the loss of a loved one would do to me. At that age, even though I understood that my Grandpa was sick, I didn't really think his dying was a possibility. He was the strongest man I knew, I didn't know, nor could I imagine, live without his deep, rumbling voice and booming laugh. I fell into a secret depression after he died, and if I'm being honest, I never got out of the deep end. I call my depression secret because that is exactly what it was. I kept my feelings of heartbreak and sadness to myself, for I felt no one was as traumatized as I. I heard people saying my Grandpa's death had been expected...was it really? Because I had NO idea I was supposed to be expecting one of the three most important men in my life to be dying. I heard family say that they were glad he was out of pain and in a better place. This just made me feel guilty and horrible for wanting him back with me, where he should be. I heard my parents say how glad they were to have heard him talking the day before he died even though he hadn't been making much sense. These words made me cry harder, for I'd blatantly told my mother that Saturday that I didn't feel like going to the hospital and wanted to stay home. The next day, my Grandpa was alive, but only just...he wasn't talking, nor was he moving. I'm not even sure he knew I was there. I missed my chance to hear his voice one last time, and now, I don't even remember what the last words I heard him speak were. I'm sure they were "I love you," but I don't remember. I don't remember, and that kills me.
   I could go on and on about all the other reasons I have to hate death, but I feel as if I'd be repeating myself with different subjects. I hate death in all forms. When it is "expected"; when it is a surprise; and when it is at the hands of the receiver. I wish I could say I've never experienced how it feels to know and love someone who battled death in that third way, but I have and it sucks. Death sucks. I understand that it's the way of freaking life, and that for some people, God is waiting on the other side, but death still sucks, and I doubt I will ever think otherwise.