In some ways, Papa’s passing was much more difficult for me than Nana’s. When Nana died in 2019, I was more worried about Papa than I was myself. I was heartbroken, to be sure, but Papa was devastated. The love of his life, the woman who, in many ways, literally saved his life, was gone. His constant companion for decades was no longer by his side. How would he take it? Would the sorrow he was buried in bury him, too? So when Nana passed, I had a job to do, and a very important job: look after Papa, physically and emotionally (and, while he could still get out of the house, spiritually as we made sure he got to church for the services and community that did so much for him).

We played family games with him, sat and talked to him, watch movies with him, helped him with his exercise and, after his Parkinsons kicked in fully, his physical therapy. As Parkinsons took control, we took on even more responsibilities, more basic responsibilities, more primal responsibilities: feeding him, cleaning him, and all the complications a more bed-bound existence comprise.

Nana’s death was also easier for me emotionally because I had all the support around me that Papa had around him. K and the kids gave me as much support, directly and indirectly, as we gave Papa.