I am ANGRY.
I just received word that a young woman I know, Rebecca Gore, has died in a one-car crash. A tire blew, flipping her truck and ejecting her from the vehicle. Becca was 19, a college student interested in devoting her life to helping others survive tragedy. She was beautiful, intelligent, funny, and very much in love with my adopted son Jake, who wanted to marry her.
And I am angry.
At Fate. At poor tire manufacturing that causes things like this to occur. At the roll of the dice that decided Becca’s time was up.
That’ll shock a lot of people and dismay others. I’ll get lectured on it. When my niece Leslie was dying of Cystic Fibrosis, the young Catholic priest in attendance told me that it was okay to be angry with God; that God has broad shoulders and can handle that anger.
Who gives a rat’s ass?
How about the shoulders of Becca’s family, bowed by this tragedy? How about Jake, whose grief is hours old, his heart broken? How about the rest of us, stumbling about absolutely stunned that this vibrant, wonderful young person is — suddenly — so much worm food?
This is wrong. There’s no other word for it. I want an explanation.
My father is 93 years old. For the past twenty years or more, he has been waiting for death, ready for it, ready to go. Even when he was healthy, he said he was ready to go, he was done. Here’s a man with obesity, congestive heart failure, diabetes, bad knees, sores that refuse to heal, who is READY to die, but he lives on and it’s Becca who is taken.
Don’t anyone tell me that the world makes sense. I just don’t have that kind of faith.