Ugh

"How do you feel about death?" the new kind of physical therapist asks.
"I don't like it," I say.
"Maybe you need to explore your feelings about death."
Maybe not, I think, but the door has been opened. The stones I so carefully placed at the decayed door, beautifully set and rising so high, start falling apart. Those big, thick boulders I rolled against that festering surface just crumble to dust.
And now I'm so angry I hardly know how to express myself without betraying the rage I so righteously feel against the intruder. Inside I draw my tattered sword and look with withered hope to my patched up armour, like a dirty quilt. And there goes my strength again, running arm-in-arm away with my sneaky courage. Being egged on by my motivation, who I see way off in the distance. We all want to run away from the big, nasty door. But now I have to stay. I'll have to round those comerades up later, again, like before, and before and before.
I tell her that we do not have to explore death, that I have someone else for that, and that we need not go there. I should have told her that death, to me, to many others, is not a theory. It's not the shoulder shrugging "we all have to face it someday" foe. It is the Life or Death foe. The Now or Never foe. It is Death. It needs a brave and sturdy foe itself. Death would walk all over you if you let it.