Why is it so goddamn difficult to get the state to assist in a human’s death? We literally shoot horses if their leg is broken, or put our pets down for committing the sin of being old, and nobody bats an eye, but you can watch a man post their Wordle results every single day on Facebook and not see that their life is already over?
My grandfather is a noble man. A person who lived a life anyone would look back on with satisfaction and contentment. To watch this once noble beacon of intelligence, wisdom, and light go from my idyllic version of what it means to be a man in this world reduced to this thin, ghostly visage that haunts my Facebook feed to let me know it took him, “Five guesses today! That was a close one!” It’s enough to make me weep watching someone I love suffer like this.
How could I have the heart to tell him that people stopped posting their Wordle results four years ago, and it was annoying even then? Would you? Could you? For Christ’s sake, this is my grandfather we’re talking about here. This is the man who taught me how to fish, how to chop wood, and the reason my parents had to teach me not to say around sixteen different words in public.
And don’t even get me started on these bureaucratic fat cat doctors and the hoops they make you jump through just to try to help a family member in demonstrable pain end their life. All of the paperwork needed, all of these cease-and-desist letters they send, all of the charges of harassment they file back at you, and all of these bans from your local health care clinic — it’s enough to drive a person mad. But I’m not going to give up, because a grandson’s love is a bond that knows no obstacle.
Ask yourself, what kind of life is someone actually living when they still post their daily Wordle results? As if his inoperable cancer wasn’t enough. Heaven forbid he discovers Words with Friends.
