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Why Do Good People Die First?
Remembering my beloved stepfather on his 17th death anniversary
When I was around 15, my stepfather began to experience a series of troubling episodes. He would often return home unexpectedly from his time in the mountains, his face pale and drawn, as if the world’s weight rested on his shoulders. He would collapse onto the wooden chair in the sparse living room with a heavy thud. Despite his attempts to go unnoticed, the muffled groans and grunts that escaped his lips betrayed the intense pain he was enduring.
It was heartbreaking to see him in pain. He had always been healthy and strong, never complaining about anything or anyone. My siblings and I felt overwhelmed with anxiety and fear, worried about whether he would be okay or if he would get through those agonizing moments.
In those days, when he could muster the pain, he would go to the local health center, hoping for some relief. Each time, a nurse or a midwife handed him a handful of pain relievers, reassuring him that everything would be fine. They assured him it was just an upset stomach, likely from some food or unfamiliar intolerances.
To lighten the atmosphere, he laughed and said, “It’s far from the lungs,” which was his way of saying it’s nothing serious. He took those pills as instructed, and the pain did go…
