There is a place that no one teaches you how to inhabit. It is the space between knowing your parent is dying and the moment they actually go. It is not hope and it is not acceptance. It is both, all the time, alternating with each breath. One moment you are searching for miracles. The next you are quietly memorizing the way they hold their cup of tea, because some part of you knows you are going to need that memory.
This is anticipatory grief — the grief that begins before the loss. And it is one of the most disorienting emotional experiences a person can endure. You are mourning someone who is still alive, and the guilt of that alone can feel crushing. How can you grieve them when they are right here, in this room, still breathing, still looking at you with those same eyes? But grief does not wait for permission. It arrives when it arrives, and it does not care that the person you are grieving is still here.
You may find yourself cycling through impossible contradictions. You want more time, and you want their suffering to end. You want to talk about what is happening, and you are terrified of saying it out loud. You want to be strong for them, and you want to fall apart. You want to hold on, and some part of you is already learning to let go. All of these feelings can exist simultaneously, and none of them cancel each other out. This is not confusion. This is love trying to navigate the unsurvivable.
The practical realities are their own kind of agony. Conversations about end-of-life wishes, hospice care, DNR orders, funeral preferences — these discussions feel like betrayals, as though planning for their death means giving up on their life. But having these conversations, as devastating as they are, is actually one of the most loving things you can do. You are honoring their autonomy. You are making sure their wishes are known. You are taking the burden of guessing off of yourself and your family. And if your parent is willing to talk about it, let them. Many dying people want to discuss what comes next. It is often the living who cannot bear to listen.
Spend time differently now. Not frantically, not with an agenda, but with presence. Sit with them. Watch their favorite show together. Hold their hand and say nothing. Ask them to tell you the story of how they met your other parent, even though you have heard it fifty times. Let silences be comfortable rather than frightening. These moments are not about making memories for the future — they are about being fully alive together in the present, which is the only time either of you has ever truly had.
Say the things you need to say. I love you. Thank you. I am so grateful you are my parent. Tell me about when you were young. What are you most proud of? Is there anything you are worried about? These conversations may feel impossible to start, but they are almost always impossible to regret. And if your parent cannot speak, or is not conscious, say the words anyway. There is growing evidence that hearing is one of the last senses to go, and even if it were not, these words are for you too. You need to say them as much as they need to hear them.
Take care of yourself, even now. Especially now. This season will demand more of you than you think you have. Eat, even when food has no appeal. Sleep, even when your mind will not quiet. Step outside, even for five minutes. You are not abandoning your parent by caring for yourself. You are ensuring that you can be fully present for whatever time remains.
When the end comes, it may not look the way you imagined. It may be peaceful or it may be difficult. It may happen when you are holding their hand or when you have stepped out for a cup of coffee. However it happens, know this: you were there. Through the treatments, through the decline, through the impossible conversations and the silent afternoons and the tears you cried in the shower so they would not see. You were there for all of it. And that presence — that stubborn, heartbroken, devoted presence — is the greatest gift a child can give a parent.
You are living in the hardest chapter of your life. And you are doing it with more love and more courage than you will ever give yourself credit for.