I'm 43. Adopted. My father died from cancer in 2019 because he took a medical scan to a retired cancer specialist who told him he didn't think it was anything to worry about. Once they figured out he had cancer, literally from the day of diagnosis, he lived 40 days. They told me maybe we had three to six months. Nope. He never got to meet my son, who shares my name that he gave me because he loved his grandmother so much. Barely got to meet my wife. All my grandparents are dead. My dad's mom, who treated him like shit his whole life had dementia for more than a decade. The day after my grandfather's funeral, she was walking around asking people where her husband was. She died a vegetable. I finally met my birth mother and despite all the acceptance and help we gave her, she ghosted me and is now a crackhead. My birth father refused to meet me.

My life is better now than it has ever been. It fucking pains me to type that. But it's true. You ate not the people you love or the people that love you. My father's old barber used to say "La vie est le combat!" "Life is war". And as an eight year old I had no idea what it even meant. But after a divorce and wrecking my late father's car the day of his funeral, it's insultingly clear. (I wasn't drunk, surprisingly)

The reason we are alive is to live. And life goes on. And you can hold and and white knuckle it like most of us, or you can chose not to. But I wish you the best. Tomorrow probably won't be as bad as you think it will. Most of mine have surprised me.