My dad died when I was 17. Most people know this about me. I was alone when I learned about it. I had to call my mom and tell her that her high school sweetheart was gone. I was put in a room with his body, alone. I spoke at his funeral when no one else in my family could.

Death and grief changes you on a molecular level. DNA is forever altered, it feels. I think this especially true when the loss is so foundational, and at such a young age.

A week before, I had a feeling he might die. And nearly every day since, for almost 30 years, I have been in one, long, existential crisis. I think about death almost every day. I wonder why we are here, almost every day. I imagine the ways in which I might die. I wonder what happens after. These thoughts are as much a part of my day as my list of weekend errands.

I thought I was inoculated against grief.

I was wrong.

My mom is dying. Our adventure together, for all of its ups and downs, is coming to an end. I cannot imagine never seeing her again. I don’t know what I will do without her.