Anticipating grief

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with loving someone who is still here.

A grief that begins long before goodbye.

A grief that sits beside you at dinner, rides with you in the car, and sleeps in the next room.

Because terminal illness doesn’t just take a life.
It slowly changes it.
And those who love them bear witness to every loss along the way.

My sister is still here.

But cancer is steadily asking more of her and more of those who love her.

As her primary caregiver, her person, her sister, I spend my days helping her navigate what this disease has stolen while trying to preserve what remains.

As a nurse, I’ve walked beside countless families through this journey.

Yet nothing prepares your own heart when it’s your family.
When it’s your person.

There are no clinical skills for this part.

No textbook chapter on watching someone you love slowly surrender pieces of themselves while you stand helplessly beside them.

So I pray.
I support.
I advocate.
I comfort.
I carry what I can.

But some nights, I find myself wondering:

Who comforts the comforter?

Whose shoulder do I rest my head on when I’ve spent so much time being a place for others to lean?

Because while grief is asking much of me, life has not paused.

I am still Mom.
Still working full-time.
Still preparing to permanently raise the toddler cousin who already calls my heart home.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I am navigating menopause, becoming acquainted with a version of myself I have never met before.

Some days I feel strong.

Other days I feel stretched so thin that even breathing feels like work.

But I keep showing up.

Not because I’m fearless.
Not because I’m strong all the time.

But because love requires things from us that comfort never will.

If you’re carrying a burden no one sees…
If you’re grieving someone who is still alive…
If you’re holding everyone together while quietly falling apart yourself…

I see you.

I am reminding myself of the same thing I would tell you:

You do not have to carry all of this alone.

~micaiah