By Anna Von Reitz
I was eight. My Mother was hospitalized at the Mayo Clinic, her life hanging by a thread. My Father was unemployed, despondent, spending his days and often late into the night at the hospital. I was a hundred miles away from my school and my friends and my normal life. I felt alone and burdened, scared, and angry.
Why my Mother? Why my Father? Why me?
My Great-Aunt came to see me one afternoon and found me in tears. I felt so sorry for myself, so frustrated, and so angry I wanted to bash furniture around the room. She sat me down and said, "Whining and blaming don't help and they don't change anything, so you might as well stop right now."
She wasn't unkind about it, just flatly stating facts.
"Your Mother is in the hospital fighting for her life. Your Father is out of work. And you are living with Cousins kind enough to take you in during this hard time."
All of which was true.
