My neighbor is a dying man. He's hoping to make it till Christmas. My neighbor is not a poor man, but I do know that a truckload of money would've made him happy. Why is that? Because if he were rich, he would've been able to afford a medical checkup every six months. The docs would've diagnosed him with cancer a couple of years ago when it wasn't life-threatening yet. My neighbor would've been able to afford the best doctors on the planet. He would've survived. Now he's a dying man. As I write this on Thanksgiving Day, I can see him sitting at his kitchen table staring at the walls, wondering why this is happening to him. Why me? A couple of weeks ago he said, "Neighbor, everybody keeps telling me to keep my chin up and to stay positive, but they don't know shit."
That's right, they don't know shit, and that so includes me. Except that money would've made him happy. That much I do know. He would've been able to see his grandchildren grow up. Now they get to bury him a couple of months from now. He's a dying man. Do we even know what that means unless it's happening to ourselves? My neighbor is slowly but surely suffocating to death, and there's nothing I can do. There he is, across the street, and nobody to share the burden with. Not really. Whatever I can say to him or his wife can say to him or his children... in the end it's all academic.
I am thankful for being alive. I'm thankful for having survived my own little ordeal. I'm grateful for each day I wake up to find I'm still going strong. I'm grateful for my family, and may they keep going strong too. Yesterday was my Mom's final day at the office. Now, on Thanksgiving Day, she is officially retired. I'm thankful for everything she's done for me. I love you, Mom.
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