It's not about me, but I'm scared too.

I don't know what to say any more, except that I feel lost.

What did david do wrong? Did he cook with too much teflon? Ingest grass chemicals as a child? Sniff asbestos?

Why david? Why not my grandmother, gretchen, vince, matthew cannon? I'm not trying to substitute them, I just want to know.

"Will they do that surgery, then, so he can come home?"
"Well, not in the short term, no."
"He doesn't have a long term, Emily."
"I know, AJ, but he may not have a short term."

I don't know if I can handle seeing my brother cry.

I'm watching Pimp My Ride and hating myself. Hating that people are watching this and caring about it when, right now, a little boy is dying. 16. He's a boy. Their jokes aren't funny, because a little boy is dying.

I guess somewhere, at any time, someone is dying. I hate to guess that, but it's true. It's completely different when it's someone you know.

And the scariest part is, four feet from david's hospital bed is another one, with another little boy or girl, just as sicka nd just as close to death. It is the ICU, after all. I'm sure one or two of them often doesn't make it through the night. All these little kids... That's all they are. Kids. Kids my age.

I have a notepad file on my desktop entitled "things to do before I die." This seems ironic now, because it's full of things like "learn hindi" "fall in love" "knit a sweater" "explore south america" "ride a vespa" "kiss in the rain" "sky dive" and "discover a cure for something". I wonder if david did any of these things.

I guess this is a blessing. I mean, his family won't have to bring him home and, through the donations of others, pay for hospice and watch him waste away to the point that he can no longer bathe himself, use the bathroom, eat, drink, and eventually even blink. No one wants to see that. (I keep hearing "but"s in my head. But what if they could see that? But what something could extend his life? But what if they could say goodbye?)

This is not about me. I don't want the emails saying that you're sorry. I know, but don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for the grays. Be sorry for david, who never got to grow past the awkward teenage high school years and finally grow into himself. Don't even think about being sorry for me.

This is in God's hands. I know that, beyond a shadow of a doubt. It's the only thing keeping me from being distraught, and I know that holds true for mrs gray (and hopefully for david, in whatever shadow of consciousness he's in). God knows, and if taking him quickly means that he doesn't have to waste away, that's totally for the best. I know that. If it means healing him so he can go peacefully at home, that's for the best, too. If it means a miracle, then that's for the best, absolutely. And I don't know what's best, which is why I'm glad I'm not God. How do you decide something like that?

David has something amazing waiting for him. I have the ultimate trust in a God who understands David, who forgives his skepticism of an everlasting, forgiving, loving Father when the only father figure he's ever known has been a deadbeat. (I pray for him, too, by the way. Maybe that will be the miracle that the grays need.)

If anything, if this is the time for David to go home to God, then Godspeed to him. I don't understand, and I doubt I ever will, but I know that I don't have to. I know that God's watching over this with bated breath, and it's silly to think that he could ever make a mistake, that he could have ever lost focus or taken a bathroom break and, subsequently, David deteriorated. God knows what he's doing.

A new life with Jesus sounds pretty darn good at this point in the very, very long blog.

I hope that's what stays through my head the last few days. A new life with Jesus.

Oh, God. Please.