When my father died this spring it was not a surprise, but his condition (a neurological disorder) was such that while multiple organ failure was the inevitable endpoint, it was unclear to everyone—including medical specialists—whether his remaining lifetime was to be measured in double digit days or double-digit months.

We ended up with enough hours of warning that both my sister and I could be there before my dad died, and I’m thankful for that.

Now my grandmother is in hospice care, in the house she has lived in for the past 40+ years. I don’t think she is in significant pain (though with a lady this tough it’s a little hard to tell), and mentally she is as sharp now she has ever been. She knows that she is in part now waiting to die, and has made her peace with that fact.

Let’s make no mistake about it: this sucks. For all that I and my weird-ass family are pretty good with the jokes about establishing a “drop dead date” for shifting the christmas celebration if a funeral must take precedence, it really sucks.

But at the same time, I and the rest of my family have been able to spend time with my grandmother, knowing that each visit might be the last. My grandmother has had time to run through, and talk through, her memories—good and bad—of the last 94 years.

I’m really, really ready for a long span of time when nobody that I care about dies, but I guess that you don’t get to choose this stuff.