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I'm going to my thesis advisor's funeral tomorrow. He went like flame, before I managed to see him. I tried to see him twice; the first time he got rushed to the hospital, and the second time he died in the night. I'm sick like a dog, but there's now way I'm missing him a third time.
People are dying of cancer around me. He was number 1, quickly followed by a friend of my spouse. I have recent photos of her with my toddler, recent enough that I send them to relatives to show them how my daughter has grown. She loves her, despite having only known her very sick. We haven't told her. I would.
I will probably, soon. My dad's cancer isn't reacting to the chemo. The new treatment seems like hail mary.
There's a privilege in losing our loved ones in their 80s. But it still sucks. I'm still losing my roots.
I remember the day I heard about my grandfather passing. He was hospitalized from a fall and had a few surgeries. I stayed over a few nights at the hospital with him. It was only in some fleeting moments of clarity that I saw the man I remembered in him. The rest of the time he reminded me of a stubborn toddler adamant to leave and not be a bother to anyone.
I was out on some chores with my dad when he got a call from the hospital. We were planning to go there right after too. A nod was all he made and I knew that it had happened.
The worst piece of consolation in the moment I received was "Time will heal". I hated that phrase and struggled with it, but I must begrudgingly admit. While not the option to choose as words of consolement, it is but an unchanging truth. Time will heal.