Spring is supposed to be about renewal, fresh starts, and new beginnings.
For me? It reminds me of endings.
My parents died in March and April—different years, same time of year. Both in the hospital. Both on ventilators. Both unable to say a word.
And no one told us they were dying.
I remember being 16, standing in my dad’s ICU room, asking a doctor if there was any hope. She hesitated for what felt like hours before giving me an answer I didn’t want to hear.
With my mom? Same story. One of the rarest, most aggressive cancers known to man—but no one said it outright. No one told us things weren’t going to work out in our favor.
So I did what I do best: solve problems.
I scoured the internet for clinical trials. I searched for some last-minute Hail Mary. Anything to buy us more time.
But in the end? All I found were dead ends. (Pun intended.)
Finally, my best friend India—who happens to be a doctor—looked me in the eye and said, “You need to start mourning.”
And thank God she did. But I wish someone had leveled with me sooner.
I’m a big girl. You can give it to me straight. But so many people are afraid to tell the truth—to be the one to burst the bubble.
Because if I’d known the truth earlier, I would have done things differently.
We didn’t have the right conversations—because we didn’t know we needed to.
We weren’t just unprepared emotionally; we were unprepared logistically. And when the dust settled, the paperwork, the decisions, the administrative hellscape of death was waiting.
Because it always is.
We live in a culture that screams “F*ck cancer!” We glorify survival. We root for the fighter. We push death as far from our minds as possible.
But here’s what happens when we do that:
- For those who are dying: It means not saying what they need to say. It means leaving things unsaid—last wishes, final thoughts, unfinished conversations.
- For those left behind: It means chasing miracles that aren’t coming. It means holding out hope, only to be blindsided when death arrives. It means not having the conversations you should have had because you’re afraid of being a downer, afraid of “giving up,” afraid of jinxing a recovery that isn’t happening.
And then? You’re left standing in the wreckage, wondering why no one told you the truth.
In some ways, I was lucky. I got to say goodbye to my parents—but only after they were unconscious.
Would I have preferred to talk to them while they could actually talk back? Obviously.
Would I have wanted to be less shocked when they died? Absolutely.
I’m not telling you this for sympathy. I don’t need a “poor you” reply. I’m telling you this because I want to do you a favor.
That’s why I wrote my book, Late To Your Own Funeral: How To Leave A Legacy and Not A Logjam.
Because I wish I had asked the hard questions.
I wish I had made the tough decisions before my parents’ voices were taken away.
I wish someone had told me the truth.
So I’m telling you.
Don’t wait. Make the most of the time that you have today.
