SCREAM

Children die. It's not fair. And it's not right. And they're not mine.
How awful is it to try and find some solice in the fact that your own children escaped dire diseases while they were children?
Someones kids have to get sick.
And not until you have friends who face that reality, or through the work you do when you get to know kids who don't make it, do you truly realize the toss of the ethereal dice that determines who gets lucky that particular day, that particular life.
And there is no way to really relate because when you find out someone lost a child or has had to endure the fight of their lives to stay alive, what eventually comes to mind is the bullet you dodged by not having had to face that issue with your own kids.
But you never stop worrying. You never relax. Maybe because you have come (that close) you continuously dread that phone call or knock on the door as your own kids get older.
Each day is a blessing without that kind of news.
And bless those who haven't been so fortunate.
I can't relate, not really. I can't put myself in what you're feeling or what you're going through. I can pretend to. I can try. But ultimately I'm too busy trying to keep that specter from my own door.
What I can do is tell you that in the absence of it being my own flesh and blood, I weep and pray and scream at the higher powers that it has to be yours.
We lost a little boy and a little girl in the last week. Not to God. I'm sure they're both cradled deeply in the recesses of her arms. No, we lost them to this life.
They're no longer here.
And after all, here is what we know for sure.
All together now:
SCREAM!