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As I write this, my paternal grandfather is probably breathing, for the last few hours of his life. The doctors love to throw terms at you – tachycardia, urinary track infections, kidney failure; the truth is he’s so old his body’s shutting down.

To the fellow cynics and atheists reading this, don’t worry this isn’t one of those ‘death reaffirms life’ posts, nor has his death led me to find religion.

What disturbs me is that I am completely indifferent. I truly could not care less if he croaks now, or two days later. My biggest concern is the possibility of his death delaying my flight back to the states, and how missing the first week of classes is going to set me back.

Yes, I rationalize; I tell myself that we were never close, that my increasingly venomous relationship with my grandmother poisoned any relationship I could have had with him, and that no one wants to live the life he’s had over the last few years, that quality of life is paramount. All of that aside, how messed up am I to feel no sympathy for a dying man and his grieving relatives?

The truth is, I just don’t know how to react. To me, his death is a statistic, one more name added to the list of relatives that won’t be around any more. I am not in denial – I understand that he truly is dying and have accepted it. Frankly, I hope that freshly signed DNR form means that he doesn’t see the sunrise, only to end the incessant waiting for the inevitable.

 

If some of you think less of me for this, you’re not the only ones.

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