Two words—F*ck you.

I would have started this letter with a proper greeting or some sort of address, but let’s get real, you damn well don’t deserve one.

It’s sad to say that I am all to familiar with your company since you decided to take my aunt from me two years ago. I still don’t forgive you. I don’t think I ever will. You have destroyed not only my life, but the lives of every single person in my family, especially my dad’s and I will never forgive you for that.

You make people think very hopeful of you, like in some parallel universe there is a cure for your demons that you cast on your victims, but I now know that’s not true. When my aunt was first diagnosed I would raise money by going on ALS fundraiser walks, because deep in my heart I longed for a cure that never came.

I don’t think you knew my aunt very well, so let me paint you a picture.

She was a fourth grade teacher, full of life and excitement. Before you took her voice, it sounded like the happiness you get when you smell a fire on a cold winter night. Before you took her legs, she would run up my front steps and wrap my little brother in her arms. She went cross-country skiing, she had visited over 15 different countries, and she never lacked adventure. She was my dad’s best friend and the goofy middle child that never seemed to mind it. My grandma won’t admit it, but my aunt was definitely her favorite child.

You gave us two years— that’s all. It felt like a blink of an eye and before I knew it I was scheduling hospital visits in between applying for college and graduating. You made everyone’s life a living hell, especially my aunts.

After she passed nobody was every really the same. The worst sound in the world is hearing your dad cry, and that’s all I heard for months. Holidays never went back to normal, and family conversations are awkward and uncomfortable. You didn't just take my aunt away, you took a piece of everyone else too.

I hope one day they find a cure for your ass because I would never wish you upon even the worst of my enemies. I hope that by the time I have children, we can refer to you as a disease of the past because that’s where you belong. I don’t have any nice words for you expect for good luck— because you're going to need it. I don’t hate very easily, but I have not accepted that you took the most influential person from me. I have not forgiven you, and that’s something I need to work on for my own sanity.

I hope that you realize that people are stronger than you. I hope you understand that one day you're going to lose— and I’m going to live to see that day.

From,

Jackie, Matt, Russ, Lucy, Josephine, Ralph, Eleanor, Jessica, George, Anthony, Jack, and the 30,000 people and families living and coping with ALS today.

In Loving Memory of Susan Williams