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I've always hated rollercoasters, yet I've found myself on one I cannot get off.
It's the one I've always watched from the ground in pure terror. A drop tower where you're constantly waiting for the fall. Alert, on edge, and then lulled into a false sense of security for a moment of calm. Then BAM. The drop comes, not knowing how far or how fast you'll fall. We stop just before we hit the ground. Then it starts all over again.
My wonderful dad is sick. Terminal cancer that's spread from his oesophagus to his brain and lungs.
This ride has been going for over four years and the only thing that stops it is the unthinkable.
Except I've been thinking about it a lot. How can I not?
Two and a half years ago, we were told he had six to 12 months. By some miracle, he has defied those odds, though we've come close to saying goodbye several times. After another heart-in-mouth month, we got Christmas, but are now in palliative care.
I am so lucky. I am so grateful. I'm so angry. I'm so sad. I feel so guilty.
I didn't know you could grieve before you've lost something. I didn't know you could lose someone while they're still here.
It's lonely, in this waiting room of grief. The irony is that there are so many of us here. Living a double life, quietly grieving a loss we know is just around the corner. It's not death as we know it, but it is in kind.
























