My grandmother died 13 years ago today. She was 65. A friend at work died two days ago. He was 30.
Grandma battled multiple myeloma for three years, but she battled me for the first 20 years of my life. I'm sure she meant well. My friend, Scott, on the other hand, was more or less his own worst enemy.
Enablers notwithstanding, Scott was morbidly obese. His 6'3" frame barely supported his weight, which, as best as his colleagues and I could tell, topped 400 lb. All efforts to persuade Scott into being more proactive with his health only revealed a level of denial I've rarely encountered. It stopped being funny long ago.
He had an excuse for everything. Defeatism is a killer. Nobody should die of a heart attack at age 30.
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