I was two years old when my father passed away from complications resulting from a bone marrow transplant. The transplant was meant to treat my father's Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. At the time, the procedure was both very new and very risky and, unfortunately, it claimed his life. It is nearly impossible to describe how severe of a blow this was to my mother, as well as to the rest of my family. After my father's death, my mother and I moved into my grandmother's house, where we both lived for the next ten years of my life.
I can say without doubt, hesitation or equivocation that, with the exception of my mother, my grandmother has had more of an influence on me than anyone else in this world. My childhood is speckled with memories of her involvement in every aspect of my life. Grandma came to every concert, sports event, and awards ceremony, and along the way she taught me so much through her stories and example.
At this point, I understand that it is almost pointless to question the logic of most members of the anti-reform movement. But as I have been watching these town halls and listening to the opposition to health care reform, one question keeps running through my mind: do these people really think that I want to kill my grandmother?
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