My father is dying.

I know that we are all dying minute by minute, despite what we’d like to think.

But, my father is without a doubt, dying. He is 77 years old.
I guess he’s within the median range for males within the U.S.
Doesn’t matter to me, though.  The statistics offer no comfort.

He has mesothelioma. Peritoneal Mesothelioma.
There is no cure.

My dad is dying.
It’s the undercurrent to everything right now.

I keep feeling a catch in my chest whenever I confront this fact.
I know that I have friends and family who have been through this.
I know that my husband, my parents, my friends and my cousins know what this is like.

It doesn’t change the pain.
It doesn’t change the facts.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

And they know this. Unfortunately, they know this.