My wife’s cousin, 70 years old, was recently diagnosed with a brain tumor and had surgery to remove it two days later. I do not know him well. He resides far away in another part of the country. My wife is getting updates by text message. We are still waiting for biopsy results which we are told may take two weeks. I have been struck many times by how fundamentally alone all of us are when we go through things. In this case we bystanders might awkwardly express our hopes for recovery, perhaps pray for a miracle that is unlikely to come if the tumor is revealed to be a glioblastoma, offer more prayers and condolences if decline and a funeral are what come next, and then quickly move on with our absurd but busy lives until it is our turn to face the inevitable end. It is not the idea of non-existence that troubles me; it is the process that I don’t like. Maybe it is better to disappear privately in seclusion like birds and some humans seem to do. After we know more, I might write him a letter, taking time to express my admiration for him and his family, including three adult children who seem like good people.


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