Bitterness

It is simply futile to spend your time comparing one person's passing to anothers'. The enormous number of people who have lost their own lives since Ken jumped off the train is mind-boggling.
Yet, in it's own way, that does not diminish the profundity of Ken's loss. Everyone we lose leaves an aching hole in our own lives.
Ken was taken out by a hideous bit of biology: the glioblastoma multiforme, stage 4. It was the kiss of death, and I knew from day one the Pope himself praying wouldn't make a bit of difference as far as keeping him alive longer. He was about the only one not praying as far as I know. There would be no feel-good Lance Armstrong story here.
He never needed the chemo or radiation therapy. And like most prayer itself, it was all to make the living feel better about themselves, not to mention the doctors and hospital a bunch of bucks. Should I be diagnosed with it, I will insist on pain killers: end of story. For some queer reason, it strikes white males in their 40s most frequently. Could it have been the prozac he took for years?
No, God is not some off-season Santa to beseech up in the stratosphere, but someone or thing far beyond our ability or willingness to consider.
Ken's in a better place? This ain't Mogadishu folks, and he had never been happier since he was a kid toward the end of his life. Besides, what's the rush when you've got a few decades here but an eternity in heaven?
On the other hand, none of this means we shouldn't pray...