11/01/2025
There’s a kind of grief that begins long before the funeral.
It starts in hospitals and medical offices—sitting through appointments, hearing the words you wish you hadn’t.
It begins quietly, when you start noticing the fatigue in their eyes, the way they’re too tired to hide how bad it’s getting.
You start grieving while you’re still holding their hand.
You learn to smile while breaking inside.
You help them eat, get comfortable, take their medicine—doing every small thing that keeps them okay for another day.
You pretend to be strong because you don’t want them to see your fear.
You nod when doctors talk, take notes you’ll never want to read again.
You’re running on coffee and nerves and whatever keeps you upright.
You watch the clock but never want time to move.
You stay beside them, doing what needs to be done, because you can’t imagine being anywhere else.
You’re exhausted in every way a person can be, but you keep going.
You brush their hair back, hold their hand, make sure they’re comfortable, whisper you love them.
You keep showing up with whatever you have left, because this is it—
the last stretch of loving them here.
You hold on tight while the world starts to let go.
And you pour every ounce of love you have into the space between now and goodbye.
