My mom and I sat together, both fully present, and watched my dad die. He was 63.

So a year and a half later, when she had a stroke and I brought her, confused, 63, to the hospital, it was a real shock when I discovered that I had to break the news of his death to her like it was a fresh piece of information. She didn’t remember I was a teacher—okay, it’s been over a decade, but that’s cool. She didn’t remember what year I was born—okay, I guess, that’s over three decades, but memories are weird. 

But her not remembering the way we watched him gasp for air, the way the lymphoma stole the white of his eyes, the thick head of hair, his breath... How do you approach re-breaking your mother’s heart when her brain has already fractured this week? There is no fucking millennial guidebook for this.

Maybe I can write one by the time I turn 63. That is, if the various blood cancers I’m set to inherit from one of them doesn’t get me first.