I hurt him so damn bad I had to hide in Jersey

By your fifties, you know. Maybe you were forced to figure it out at 20 or maybe it was just recently, but by now you fully understand: they’re going to get old and sick and be afraid and in pain and die, and there is not one god damned thing you can do about it.

You can kill your beloved pets. Put them out of their misery, give them a peaceful passing. You cannot kill your parents.

So you email the renowned oncologist author and for once your dilbert job pays off, because he agrees to help. Except - per my previous point - there is no way to help, not really. So you read journal articles you barely understand. And make lists. And wait. The rest of the family knows how to pray and hope, but you can see exactly how it’s going to play out from here.

When I was a teenager we lived next door to Geoge and Lucille. They were close to my grandparents age, George spent 15 years being eaten by cancer, and by the end Lucille openly wished he was dead.

Seeing how it’ll play out isn’t the same thing as having a timetable, and I do have an affection (read: crippling need) for preparation. So I have a go bag packed. Which is way less cool than in fiction.

M

[‘not to mention the to-do list.’]