I am soon to be the last surviving member of my family at 27 years old.
My mum was just diagnosed with lung cancer with liver mets. She is a single mum and I am her only child, my biological father didn’t want me so I have never met him and no clue (nor do I care) if he is still alive.
In 2020 my Godfather, my uncle George, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma so he moved in with my mum and I so we could look after him through his treatment.
He also had COPD from years of living in damp caravans. He beat the cancer and moved out into his own home and, even though I knew he was struggling, I was too wrapped up in my own world to look after him like he deserved. He was told only a small portion of his lungs were functioning and he needed a lung transplant to live.
I was in denial.
Convinced myself that he was going to have the transplant and live happily for another five years.
Officially it was the COPD that got him.
In reality he had called me that night saying his water wasn’t working. I didn’t understand what he meant and when I asked if I should come over he hung up. I didn’t go check on him until morning because I was tired and I was selfish. He fell in his bathroom. The police wouldn’t let me see him but at the morgue I noticed he had a broken nose. I carry this guilt with me like a cloak made from lead.
That was three years ago in 2023. In May of this year I lost one of my childhood dogs. They were a pair, male and female. I hadn’t even realised how deeply I loved this dog until I lost him.
He was eleven years old. Liver cancer. The mistake, I realise now, that I made was assuming that he and I would be the last men standing. I had subconsciously started becoming very close with him because we were the youngest members of the family.
When we first got him I had little interest in him. In my eyes he was smelly, brown and the highest offence: a boy.
For context I was fifteen years old when we got him and, as a girl raised by only women, I strongly preferred the company of girls over boys and even now women over men. He was annoying, he peed on my floor and stole my food.
I’m happy to say that it was merely a few years before I realised how stupid I had been. He was an angel walking on four legs. The most beautiful boy in the world, gorgeous brindle fur with big teddy bear eyes. His happiness was infectious. There were so many times I was trying to be moody; Sad or angry and his big silly face and wagging tail made it completely impossible. He was my sunshine boy.
He was incredibly active and healthy. Barely sat still for a second, always hopping and bopping around the place. There was one issue. He had hip dysplasia. Fairly common in older dogs the vet said and put him on painkillers.
We were taking him to the vet that day for his checkup to fill his repeat prescription but that morning he was incredibly lethargic. I was immediately worried but it didn’t even cross my mind that he could have something as serious as terminal cancer.
The emptiness in the house was so immediate as soon as we got home from the vets. I spent weeks in bed. Every morning I opened my bedroom door to an empty hallway and it felt like he had died all over again.
The house was miserable and my fourteen year old dog seemed very down. This lead my mum and I to the bright idea of getting a puppy. It’s been tough for me because she has been unwell for a while.
A few weeks after getting the puppy, my mum was sent for a chest x-ray and last week was diagnosed with lung cancer. I am completely devastated and overwhelmed.
I don’t have any close friends and the only family I have are my mum and my dogs. I’m quite worried about being completely alone and am drowning in anticipatory grief for both my mum and older dog (she is healthy, despite a touch of deaf and blindness, as far as I know but at fourteen every second is precious). I want to try and stay positive for the sake of my mums mental health and my puppy’s crucial training and development but I am a mess inside.
I don’t know how to cope with all of this death or how to function without anyone in the world who loves me.
Has anybody else dealt with being the last person in your family? How do you cope?

Picture is of my beautiful boy Lenni on his birthday last year.

My dad just passed on Sunday from cancer. I keep crying myself to sleep and waking up hoping it was all just a terrible nightmare. That he was never sick at all. Then reality crashes down again. Everyone keeps saying it gets easier, but I can't see how.

I love you, Daddy.

When my dad first got admitted to the hospital, none of us realized it was the beginning of the end. His PleurX tube on the right side was clogged and his chest was filing with fluid— he had metastatic prostate cancer that spread to his lungs. We all thought it was going to be a short stay.

He was admitted on September 8th, a Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays now. We thought he’d be going home the next day or the day after, once doctors fixed the clog. Well, that didn’t happen. A few days later, he was still in there, still being told he’d be going home the next day, the next day, etc.

Then a week went by. He was still in there. On Thursday, September 17th, they pulled his PleurX tubes on both sides and gave him a chest tube on the right. I didn’t know that was happening so I took a half day and went up to the hospital to surprise him with a visit. He had just gotten back to his room after surgery, so he was sleeping. I talked to my stepmom for a couple hours until he woke up. He had been sleeping so peacefully. It was nice to see. He was pretty groggy and in pain, so I didn’t stay super long. I wanted him to rest.

On the way out, I stopped in at the gift shop. I don’t know why. I was on autopilot then— maybe I subconsciously knew things were about to get worse. I was looking at the stuffed animals and found a small Jellycat section. As soon as I laid eyes on the little white bunny, I knew she was mine. I picked her up and named her Hope before I had even gotten up to the register. I left, holding my little bunny to my chest as I walked out to my car. I couldn’t stop the tears that started to fall halfway across the parking lot. Once I was safely in my car, I broke down. I sobbed into her soft head for 20 minutes. I screamed at the sky. I begged a God I don’t know that I believe in to please, please not take my daddy. I needed my daddy, not God.

When I calmed down, I drove home. Hope came with me to every hospital visit after that. In fact, she hasn’t really left my side since I bought her. It’s what I needed— a little hope.

Fast forward to the next week. They took him down for a CT scan to place new PleurX tubes. The goal was to send him home on in-home hospice. The scan revealed it wasn’t fluid filling his chest cavity. It was a rapidly growing cancerous mass. PleurX tubes were no longer an option. There were no other options. Seeing the look of devastation on his face when they told him the new tubes weren’t an option was soul-shattering.

He was sent to a hospice facility on Thursday September 24th. I visited him every single day he was there. Things were initially good. He was only supposed to be there until they stabilized him enough to send him to in-home hospice care. Thursday was good. Friday was good. Then came Saturday. His last lucid day, Saturday September 26th.

He didn’t really want to eat his dinner. I could tell. But I was there and my brother was there and my stepmom was trying so hard to get him to eat. So he did. I know he did it for us. He was always more worried about us than he was himself. He truly was the best daddy in the world.

That night, he became too air hungry and agitated, so from that night on, he was kept pretty well sedated. No more talking. No more hugs. Just sleeping and gasping for air as the mass continued to consume the space he needed to breathe. Best believe that I was there on Sunday, even if he wouldn’t be awake. And Hope was with me too, of course. When I left on Sunday night, I kissed his head and I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, daddy.” It’s what I said every time I left the hospital and every time I left the hospice center.

I took Monday the 28th off work and sat in his hospice room all day. He was snowed but would get agitated pretty often. My voice seemed to bring him comfort. He would yank his oxygen mask off, or try to, and I’d replace it while gently saying, “You have to leave that on, daddy.” He would relax when I spoke to him. Monday the 28th was when I kissed him and said, “Get some rest, daddy.”

I decided to work a half day on Tuesday the 29th. I spent the morning just getting ready to go up to the hospice center so I could start my day from there at noon. And so I did.

I hate Tuesdays.

That was the day he left. My brother and I were talking and laughing about our dogs while I was clearing up emails from all my out of office days and updating coworkers. My stepmom stepped out to take a walk around the grounds once I got there. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye as my brother was saying something. I turned to look. My dad had moved his head and his eyes had cracked open. I’d like to think he saw us. I saw his chest rise and fall. And then it was like his body deflated.

That was the moment his soul left. I know that was the moment his soul left his body. My eyes must have gone wide because my brother stopped mid sentence, looked at me, looked at him, and then it was a flurry of movement.

I slammed my laptop shut and said, “Go get mom.” He ran. Somehow, I was at my dad’s bedside and I had the remote in my hand. I was shaking. The agonal breathing had started. I called the nurse. They came in right after my brother and stepmom came in. I don’t even know how many times I said, “I love you, daddy. You’re the best daddy in the world.” The agonal breathing stopped. The nurse put her stethoscope to his chest in a few places.

At 2:29 PM on September 29th, 2026 and the age of 63, my daddy was gone. I was lucky to have the best daddy in the world for 34 years. It does not stop me from wishing for more. I feel robbed. It still doesn’t feel real.

One thing we always did as a family was the “I love you” hand sign 🤟🏼 the picture of him is from when he was still in the hospital and before hospice was on the table. I found a necklace this week with the hand sign pendant. It came today and the pendant was a little bigger than I was anticipating. I was initially going to put it on a bracelet instead— I wear his ashes in a pendant on a necklace now.

I couldn’t think of any better place for it to go instead than on Hope ❤️‍🩹 part of me would like to believe that, since I had her with me, maybe a little piece of his soul is latched onto her. Silly, I know.

As days continue to go by, I feel worse. It gets harder to cope with knowing I’ll never call him again. I’ll never get another text or Facebook reel from him. What I have is all I’ll ever have. I’ll now be living 45+ years without him. He should still be here. I should have had 20+ more years with my daddy.

It’s not fair. I’m only 34 and there are so many things he didn’t get to see me do. I have never missed anyone as much as I miss my dad. I write to him in a journal nearly every day. It helps but it isn’t the same.

I love you, daddy 🤟🏼

Perfect description of grief, and it can all happen in one day.

I cried reading this. Especially number 3, 5, 9 and 10. I miss my dad so much, it hurts the more deeply you love.

Hi everyone. Tw for drugs / overdose mentions

I lost my sister in 2020 to a heroin overdose.

I have lost many many people in my 25 years but this is just the one I can't seem to shake. I figured I would share about it here to a community that understands, and just to get it out of my head. I appreciate anyone who takes the time to read my rambling.

My sister had a rough battle with addiction. She went to rehab twice and unfortunately, after leaving rehab the second time, she overdosed at a friend's house. She was without oxygen for approx. 45 minutes in the restroom. To this day I do not know who this friend is, and there is so much rage inside of me over this entire situation.

We got a call from her friend that she overdosed and was brain dead in the hospital. I thought it was a very sick joke at the time. I was 18 and couldn't have fathomed losing my sister. I don't think the reality set in until a year or two ago. Our mom did not believe it either. She was schizophrenic and also struggled with addiction so she convinced herself this was not the reality. For a long time I felt like I was the only one who knew she was no longer with us, I think that attributed to the struggle.

The hospital was cagey with information and due to our mother's condition and our lack of transportation we could not make the hour drive to see her. But I also did not want my last memory of my sister to be her body on life support. Her father also struggled with addiction and was not reliable whatsoever.

She was 12 years older than me and fondly recalled changing my diapers when I was born. I remember an instance where our mom was having an episode when I was about 4 years old and she physically put herself in between our mother and I. At only 16 years old, she physically blocked me from what she thought was dangerous and it really hurts my heart to think about. I called her "sissy" my entire life. She would correct me constantly because I used to call our mom "my mom". We had different dads and I didn't really get it as a kid.

I loved her more than anyone or anything in the world. She lived with her dad (we're half siblings but that doesn't matter to me) so her visiting during the holidays and my birthday was the highlight of my year, every year. All I ever wanted was to see my sissy. She lied to me on my 9th/10th birthday, because I asked for "super scribblenauts" on the DS for my birthday; she said she couldn't find it. Lo and behold she pulled it from behind her back on the day of and I'll never forget how happy it made me. She always did what she could to make me happy and spoiled me rotten.

I have so many things to say about her and stories to tell. She was just a beautiful soul and wonderful person. She made so many friends wherever she went. She loved to party and have fun, and she cared immensely about her people. She went into rehab to get her baby/my niece back after losing custody due to her addiction. She fought so hard and had a binder full of rehab homework that got left at our trailer. It just feels so unfair and I feel so angry about it all because she worked so hard to get clean and all it took was one bad decision to ruin everything. One single mistake took her from us.

What hurts the most is living my entire life without her. I can't call her, I can't text her, and our last conversation was an argument around Christmas. She overdosed shortly around Christmas and was officially taken off life support the following January/February. The holiday season just makes me so sick because she's not here with me. She should be here and it just enrages me. I loved her so much, it just isn't fair. I'm ashamed to admit the jealousy I feel when people are able to just call up their family whenever they want, and have a mundane conversation. I would give up anything to just talk about the weather with my sister.

I will never understand her circumstances completely but as I get older I feel like i do. Some small, less consequential addictions I'm working through make me feel so much grief, because I feel like I understand why it happened to her the way it did. Sometimes I just don't know what to do with all the rage and the grief. I can't seem to understand WHY this had to happen. It really just makes me sick with pain and grief.

I'll love her for as long as I'm alive and not a day goes by that I don't think about her. She was silly and wonderful and crazy and I miss her more than anything in the world.

Thank you for reading, if you got this far. 🩷​

It’s been a few weeks since my friend hung herself, and it feels worse than when I first found out.

My best friend was a ray of sunshine and had the most contagious laugh. I dont think there was a time where we ever could stay super serious.

That was until she met her boyfriend. I dont want to blame him because I know its wrong, but I cant help but feel angry towards him, and more to myself. While she was dating him she lost 40 pounds in about two months. It scared me. I knew something was wrong so I invited her to eat with me and just to spend time with her. I didnt know thatd be the last time I got to hug her.

I tried to get her to leave him, but she told me it wasnt fair of me to ask of her so I stopped trying. I became less close with her and I regret every second of it. A few days before she passed her and I had talked on the phone and she told me how no one reaches out to her anymore except for me. I wish I would’ve tried harder or been there for her. I knew there were signs but I didnt pursue it because I didnt want to lose her. But now I regret every second because now I have lost her completely.

I feel numb now recently, and when I feel happy it feels like an empty happiness, like I feel guilty because I am happy here and she isnt here to feel the same. I cant imagine what was going through her head in her last moments. I just wish I knew. I wish I tried harder. If there are signs please nag, please stay in contact, and never let go. And if you ever feel like no one is there for you, I promise there is. Please never feel scared to reach out to someone, and please never feel embarrassed to feel emotions. We are all human.

(The pictures are from my school and you could probably find out what school he went to and figure out who he was but I trust no one is gonna do that, I also know he liked being filmed and his parents want his story to be known but I still chose to censor everything because I don't feel like I have the right to put his face out there)

He died in june, right before the end of the school year, drowned in a lake because he fell off a boat. He couldn't swim and it's still unknown if he was pushed off or just jumped down because he wanted to. Three other guys were on the boat with him, he went to the lake right after school. His mother told him no when he asked but he didn't listen. Most of my classmates went there as well but they went home first and then went to the lake. They arrived after he fell in and the lake was closed, the police told them to leave but others told them they heard it was him who fell in. I was sick that day, I would've probably been there too otherwise and told off by the police. I heard it from a friend a day later at my first Christopher Street day, I proceeded to first cry before then having a panic attack before going home. I simply denied that it's him because online wasn't a name, just something about a 14 year old boy drowning. I still checked Google every five minutes to see if there was anything new. His body was found on Sunday, he disappeared on a Friday. The next day I went to school and the seat right in front of me was empty. One of my classmates brought their mom, there was also a social worker standing at the front but my class teacher started talking, the social worker had discussed with them that they should be the one to tell us, not him. I still refused to believe it until my class teacher said it. A lot of my classmates went to the grocery store in the break and bought flowers (second picture, although the picture of him was added later) the last picture were flowers people from other classes brought and put there, they were later moved inside in from of our classroom (first picture). I still don't really know how to handle it but I'm now scared of water, apparently. Not all water though, just open, wild waters, I don't mind going swimming in a water park but a lake or the ocean? Absolutely not! I'm at a different school in a different class now, no one heard of him there, so I have no one to talk to about it, I have a few friends but I don't want to traumatize them or something. Because I'm definitely traumatized. I still check social media sometimes to see if there's anything new in his case, nothing really important. I don't know why I'm posting this, I guess I just want to talk about it a little.

He wasn’t in my childhood much but I knew who he was. He came around eventually when I was a teenager and by that point I didn’t want to give him a chance... I always thought if he died I wouldn’t care, but when my grandma called me to tell me they found him dead at his house I almost dropped to my knees. All the times I ignored him or said I was busy working, all the times I could’ve brought my kids to meet him. I was too resentful and now I regret it. He was only 54.

He was type 1 diabetes since he was 11 and died at home. Maybe if I was around more I would’ve noticed that he was sick and something more was going on.

Life is too short to let pride, hurt, or lost time keep you from someone. You never know when your last chance to talk, forgive, or make things right will be. Don't wait until you wish you had one more chance.

I wish we had more time. Rest peacefully. 🕊️

I still can’t believe he’s gone. I didn’t think the day that I last talked to him would be the last day I talked to him. Steven was my best friend since first grade, and he tragically passed away back in early 2019 from meningitis. Dying at just twenty years old almost feels profoundly cruel. Steven was the greatest man I’ve ever met. He was the type of person who would give the shirt off his own back, or give a stranger his last dollar. He may be gone, but he’s still my best friend, and he always will be. Nobody could ever replace him, or fill that empty void his passing left me. Every day I wish it were me and not him. I would give everything if it meant I could trade places with him. His mother reached out to me over the summer and told me I was the only person who still thinks about him, and it broke my heart. A great man like that should never be forgotten. Even all these years later, I miss him beyond comprehension. Sometimes I have moments where I think “I have to tell Steven about this” and then I am slapped back into a reality where he isn’t there. It feels like when he died, my life was split into before and after. Since his passing, I’ve become reclusive. Everyone I once spoke to faded into obscurity. I’ve never been more alone.

4 months ago I lost my little brother to suicide . That day he was angry cause he had to cut the grass per my father. I spoke to him briefly when I heard doors slamming. He had basically said he was annoyed he had no notice and I asked if he had plans that day and if that's why he was upset. He said he didn't and I figured he just needed space so I said okay dude and walked out. Precontext : The day before I had a rave I was going to and my brother had rode his bike to play basketball. When he came back he told me an older woman was rolling out of a parking lot when she then hit my brother with her car. When he got home he explained the story and said he was fine but he didn't wanna call the cops cause she was older and she had a thick accent so he felt bad about getting enforcement involved. He said he didn't want our parents to know cause then he wouldn't be able to ride his bike again. I made sure he was fine and I left . When I left he had asked if I could pick up shrooms for him and of course I said no and that he was too young to try substances like that . He got upset and said he was gonna try it eventually anyways. He had posted an Instagram note stating that ( nothing ever goes right for him ). The reason he didn't wanna cut the grass was because of his knee pain from the accident but of course my parents didn't know that. Maybe at this point I shouldve told my parents but I didn't out of not wanting to snitch out my little brother. After an hour of leaving him alone in his room my stepmom got home to find his door locked. I felt my anxiety slowly rising as she panicked to get my dad to take off the door knob to his room. We all found him hanging off of his door. They preformed CPR as I somehow called 911. It felt like first responders were there in minutes. We were in the hospital for a week after that cause they got his pulse back but he was pronounced brain dead. That week prolonged the trauma that I was already experiencing. He had previously expressed suicidal ideations to my mother but that he wouldn't want me to find him. He in therapy he had a safety plan . I think he was experiencing cannabis induced psychosis. He wasn't himself for a while .

Regarding grief im doing better now but I find myself getting more irate with small things . Minor inconveniences others complain about frustrate me . When I look sad or down at work my coworkers will ask if im okay or what's wrong which upsets me cause why the fuck wouldn't I be upset? I find myself being angry at the world sometimes. I feel like no one understands or relates to me ( I wouldn't want anyone to ) . I wonder my chapters with him were real it's just hard for me to believe this is my new reality . I found myself struggling with abandonment issues or getting anxiety about leaving my parents alone cause I get nervous I'll find someone like that again .

He had a heart attack. They put in two stents in surgery. He was doing well and was doing physical therapy.

My heart hurts so bad. Uncle Bob you can’t go. I love you. Mama you gotta give Uncle Bob a big kiss for me.

4 years today since I lost my dad, can’t believe I have been able to continue living, smiling, existing… 4 years ago, I didn’t know that around 8pm, everything would change forever.

A day of remembrance and recognition, I had it all without knowing for 34 years of my life, until one day, 4 years ago, I lost my dad and myself, the opportunity to know myself as his daughter, a version of me that holds his memory alive. Walking his steps, listening his voice only in my heart, trying to find him in every cloud, breeze and each drop of rain, yearning for the mountains we walked together… grief has become my friend, I welcome it, hug it, care for it, because is there where I find the profound unconditional love we gave each other… once I had it all, and it was beautiful.

Always. 🤍

Im im my late 20s. my mom passed away last month. she was in her 60s and had some health issues but losing her has really blindsided me. No one saw this coming. I still live with my parents, to save money and help take care of her. I have a job so I'm not one of those No Education, Employment, or Training types.

But Ive always wished I could branch out into music video editIng, most of what I do right now is on Blender and Premiere, photoshop too. all stuff that requires me to be inside.

i have some money saved over the past two years, so I spent a lil bit and bought a pretty nice hybrid camera. Yeah, I consider this a future business investment but also it's something to keep me having a reason to not just go to work and then be home all evening.

I bought it last week, and it's nice. it's not a distraction from my lifes issues, i cant really escape this. but having it, and wanting to finally take videography seriously (not just editing) means that I feel like I need to go outside and do stuff or Im wasting time / money.

tbh Im really nervous about the future. Like if i really let myself, I'll start being scared I'll lose my dad, then I'll lose my job and I'll be homeless. None of that is warranted given life right now, as far as I know, but I'm really just trying to make sure I don't become a recluse due to grief and burnout.

I lost my brother due to suicide less than a year ago and i still struggle to talk to people about it. I feel like they dont understand though because they havent lost someone so close to them and i'm afraid of traumatizing them with the story. I thought about talking to my friend who lost her mother a few years back but then i don't want to disrupt her grief, "break the bubble" or for her to feel like i'm trying to compare the two. I keep going back and fourth on it and i end up never talking to anyone about it. I don't have any professional mental health help as I have no insurance and the loss of my older brother has been really weighing on me lately.

I’ve been a pretty staunch atheist for decades now, but I always struggle with the grief of close loved ones and their finality, wishing they could somehow see and feel the love that pours for them when they’re gone It’s a different kind of reckoning with loss of a loved one.

It is now 12:45 AM and I feel like I cannot breathe. I feel horrible and nauseous. I keep thinking of him. Cannot believe he is gone. Just like that.

I don’t know what I lost him to. He had cancer but chemotherapy weakened him and he got pneumonia. Those last few weeks are so vivid in my mind. I didn’t help him much. I cannot handle the guilt. I should have insisted to go to another better hospital. I should have probably researched more about aggressive chemo treatments in older people and whether he had any alternatives. I should have been kinder to him. I should have talked to him more. I should have forgiven him and asked for his forgiveness too. I should have taken more photos and videos and voice notes. I should have helped him. I couldn’t.

I am so so scared right now. I have no one to help me, not the way he would’ve helped me. I am scared of losing others too. I don’t believe he just vanished leaving me here all alone. He sees me right? I will see him again won’t I?

My ex boyfriend of two years and I were best friends. Even though we broke up, we still spoke and had that connection. It was such a deep and fast connection initially that I had no question we knew each other in a previous life and I believe we were soulmates. Fully and genuinely. I know he felt the same.

I found out this past Wednesday (a week ago) that he committed suicide on September 25th in a horrific way. He jumped off of a bridge. The night before I was told, I had a dream about him. My first since we dated honestly. In the dream, I was sitting down and holding my phone and he was standing behind me, right against me, and he just told me he loved me and I woke up. Obviously I thought it was weird I’m dreaming of my ex. 8 hours later I was told he had been dead for 3 weeks. It has been horrible to say the least. I haven’t not cried for a week.

I had another dream about him last night. He was sitting in front of me on a desk. Telling me someone else had died, (which I was also informed his uncle died in June from his sister), and I said oh that’s horrible. Then we touched our feet together and I felt his warmth. In my head in the dream, I knew he should be cold.

I keep having horrible intrusive thoughts that torture me about everything about his last day. Where was the last place he stood? Did he regret it in the 3.6 seconds it took him to fall? And how his body is in the casket. I’m trying to be grateful for such a meaningful connection but I just want to sleep for a chance to speak to him again.

Do you believe every dream is a visit? I hope it is. I miss you tahir forever.

I’m at the age when conversations with friends start to include our parents getting older. Their health. Their appointments. The diseases that can take someone slowly, and what it means to watch that happen.

Recently, I was with my mom at an appointment when someone asked for her email address. There was a year in it, and they asked if that was when she’d made it.

“It was the year I got married,” she said. “But it has a sad ending.”

She made that email after my dad died. The ones before it had his initial, or some combination of their names.

I had gone with her to an appointment. I hadn’t expected an email address to break my heart.

My first instinct was to argue with the word sad. To me, a sad ending to a marriage meant a secret second family. Dishonesty. Some spectacular bullshit that broke what two people had built.

That wasn’t their story. They loved each other. He died.

But I’ve thought about her words since, and I’m beginning to understand how differently we can carry the same loss. I lost my dad. She lost the person whose name was tangled up in hers—even in her damn email address.

I have so much grief over his passing. I also find peace in the week before he died.

He went to the doctor. He’d been limping, and with my brother’s wedding coming up in December, I’d pressured him to do something about it. He came home saying he’d been given a clean bill of health.

He was excited about getting into better shape for the wedding.

He played golf with his childhood friends, guys he hadn’t played with in quite a while. He loved a social scene, even if afterward we had to hear who said what, who bet what, and whatever petty shit had apparently required a full debrief.

A friend who was leaving town came over to say goodbye and tell us about her trip. We drank red wine, and he started razzing me about where I was hiding the peanut butter I used for one of my noodle recipes.

I can still see him. Elbows on the counter. Red wine teeth. That glint in his eyes.

“Buy your own,” I told him.

He laughed. And something in that laugh made me feel he was proud that I’d grown into a woman who would give him shit right back.

Father’s Day was the upcoming weekend. For the first time in more than a decade, my brother and I were both living in the same state as our parents. I had a short work trip to Chicago, but I’d be back in time for lunch and the driving range.

Dad insisted the day didn’t have to be about him.

We told him it would be. He could survive being celebrated for an afternoon.

But we didn’t make it.

Friday morning, I received a text from my mom that was meant for someone else. She was waiting for the police and wanted them to call back.

I called immediately.

My dad had died in his sleep.

It was unexpected. I’ve always thought it was a heart attack. We had plans. He had plans. There was a wedding coming, and a lunch we hadn’t had yet.

The airline told me the next flight they could get me on was at seven that evening.

It was seven in the morning.

That wasn’t going to work. I went to the airport.

I couldn’t stop crying. Thankfully, the desk agent found me an earlier flight. And somewhere in that sea of strangers, a man approached me.

“I’m so sorry you’re so sad,” he said.

I will never forget that.

He didn’t tell me everything would be okay. He didn’t offer an explanation or try to tidy up what I was feeling. He saw me crying and acknowledged that something hurt terribly.

It was enough. It meant so much.

I grieve for my father. I grieve for everything he missed.

My brother got married less than six months later. Dad had gone to the tasting at the venue, and I’m grateful he got to share that part. I wish like hell he’d been there for the wedding.

He was retired, too. Finally settling into it after getting pulled back into work. He should have had more time to enjoy that. More golf. More wine. More opportunities to complain about his friends and steal my peanut butter.

I wanted years more of him.

But I find peace in what his last week held. Old friends. Family. Laughter in the kitchen. Things he was excited about. Things he was looking forward to.

Then he went to sleep, and as far as we know, he died peacefully. He was spared the prolonged illness and decline that so many people endure. I’m grateful for that, even while I’m furious about how much time we lost.

He had a great life, and his last week was full of the people and ordinary pleasures he loved. There is comfort in that for me.

My mom may feel that comfort differently. Or some days, she may not feel it at all.

I’m learning to leave room for that.

And I still wish he were here, asking where the hell I put the peanut butter.

It has been 2 months since my beautiful mommy passed and and I do not know what to do with my life anymore. I really do not know what to do. Time is moving but I'm not. What do I do? I'm so depressed, hopeless, sad and emotionally tired. I feel dead inside.

I lost my dad on Sunday. It was traumatic as hell and I'll definitely be seeking more advice and comfort here later but right now I've kinda gone numb and rather than feeling all the painful things I should be feeling, I can only focus on more practical matters. Breakdown is incoming, I know it, there's just so freaking much I need to do right now I think my body is holding everything back until I have a second to breathe.

When he was taken off the ventilator and we were sitting with him until he passed, we were offered all kinds of mementos; a lock of his hair, little crotchet hearts, and his handprints.

The doctor said they were taken using some kind of chemical process (tbh I wasn't really listening, I had just watched the person I love most in the world die), and that eventually they would fade away completely. They offered to photocopy the prints but I want to keep the originals. They are the last things his hands touched and I also couldn't be sure the copies would be the exact same size or whatever.

The prints actually look like shit if I'm honest, His hands were swollen and the nurse didn't do a good job flattening them out so they look more like gorilla paws than my dad's elegant hands. The page is covered in smudges and the print is no where close to centred. Despite all that, it's now one of the most precious things I own.

Has anyone else received their loved ones' handprints using that same printing method? And if so, is there any way to preserve them?

For context, I’m a 35 year old guy. It’s okay to be honest with yourself and cry a little guys.