Ever since my parents divorced, this time of year has been difficult, but never as difficult as this year. It was November 25, 2021. Thanksgiving morning. I drove you to the emergency room because something was wrong with your left eye. You couldn’t lift your eyelid. It’s called ptosis. And nothing would ever be the same. The CT scan revealed a tumor on your pituitary gland, and you were transferred to another hospital for emergent surgery, which happened the following day. After the procedure, the neurosurgeon, Dr. Patel, called. “It was everything we expected.” “The surgery went well.” “We’ll have pathology results in a week or two.” You felt great. They kept you in the ICU for a couple days, but you felt great. “A new lease on life,” you said. Ten days later, things began to go wrong. Ingestion of anything, including water, triggered violent vomiting spells. Back to the ER we went. You were admitted, and the following day, a day before your 36th birthday, our lives were obliterated. “It’s called an atypical teratoid rhabdoid tumor.” “Very rare.” “Chemotherapy and radiation.” As the neurosurgery fellow told us more, I Googled ATRT cancer. Without clicking on any of the individual results it became immediately clear to me that this was bad. The worst possible outcome, actually. And exactly six months after that terrible Thanksgiving morning, you were gone. Six. Months. I’m gone too, just in a different way. I’m alive, yes. But this isn’t living. More like simply surviving. I don’t know why I continue to do it, but I still vacuum the apartment. I wash the dishes. I go to work. But I don’t really know why. Aside from the cat, I have nothing left for which to live. My parents are gone. Sister’s dead. The only family I still speak to is a very supportive uncle who lives in Colorado. A friend who’s become more of an acquaintance throughout the years. When I look at my life now, it’s as if I’m assessing a battlefield. Everything is scattered. Things broken that will never be repaired. Craters and divots created by me and my dysfunctional personality. Bridges blown away. I don’t like Thanksgiving. Xmas is even worse. And New Year’s is a celebration of depression. My life is over. I’ll continue to collect useless trinkets along the way, but once it’s time to leave, I’m gone. And sometimes, that’s just the way it is.