I’d talk to my oldest. Talk about the times that we both remember fondest. Tell him I’m going to do everything to make him happy and keep him comfortable. As much as I want to say that I want to work out a signal for when he’s ready, that’s not how it works. That’s not compassion.

Today is the fourth anniversary of my dad’s passing. I was blessed to have the time that hospice gave us, to spend last moments, to say goodbye. The grief afterwards has taught me that grief is grief. There’s no measuring between types of grief or between people. It hits in unexpected ways and it hurts. The grief of Dad hasn’t gone away, it’s just gotten easier to carry. The waves of it still crash on my shores, but most days it’s more of a tidal wash. I know I’m going to go through another storm when it’s time for my oldest, but I know that it will make me a better person to embrace it and work through why it hurts so much, why and how much I love him. Sharing that vulnerability has brought me closer to my friends. Sharing it with others has been (however counterintuitively) self empowering.