The following is an adaptation of the eulogy I gave at my sister’s funeral service. She died of cancer in March 2018.

She was my only sister, born seven years after me. I never imagined I would have to one day stand here and give her eulogy. A few days before she died, I told her that she has to get better to one day take care of me, and that I would get sick on purpose and even make her wipe my butt. She would usually laugh when I made a joke like that, but now she could barely manage a smile. The morphine and fentanyl were taking away her mind. She was no longer herself.

You may be in a state of shock as to what happened because she probably seemed normal to you when you last saw her. I want to be honest and explain what the cancer did to her.

She was diagnosed with stage 2b triple negative breast cancer in October of 2015. Stage two means that cancer cells escaped from the site of the initial tumor and made their way into nearby lymph nodes. I live in Europe, so after she was diagnosed, I came back to help her with treatment. I was with her for most of everything the doctors advised: chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. I did my own research and verified that she was getting the best treatment that modern medicine allowed. She was going to get better. The cancer would go away.

Chemotherapy was the hardest for her. Imagine a volcano that activates deep within your body but refuses to erupt through the surface. It caused far more pain than the tumor itself. There was no shortage of cheerleaders in the doctors’ offices and the support groups that told her to be strong and never give up. This was only temporary, they said, a mere speed bump of what would be a long and fulfilling life. She took it to heart and endured months of medical torture, more than I believe I could handle myself.

Once her treatments were done, I went back to Europe and believed she would go back to living as she had before, but one thing they don’t tell you about cancer is the terrible, constant anxiety you face while in remission. A random headache was brain cancer. A stomach cramp was cancer of the gut. Fatigue was blood cancer. Her doctors wanted to put her on anti-anxiety medicine, because any problem to them can be hammered away with drugs or surgery, but instead I talked her down from many of the panic attacks she experienced, all of which I was sure were false alarms.

During these panic attacks, I was careful to not say that the cancer didn’t return, because how could I know for sure? So many people told her she’d be okay, and the cancer would never come back, but how could they know? They were just saying words, building her up as a “cancer survivor,” but cancer always comes back, and in her case, I don’t think it ever left her.

In January of this year (2018), she contracted the flu. The flu turned into bronchitis. Then it turned into bilateral pneumonia. They say that on an x-ray lung cancer and pneumonia look the same, so one month was lost pumping her with antibiotics when the symptoms were caused by cancer cells that relocated from her breast to her lung. I was walking to my favorite French café on a Saturday evening when I got a call from her. The results of her lung biopsy came in.

“It’s cancer,” she said.

“Are you joking?” I replied, not wanting to believe her.

“No.”

We cried together. I told her that I’d be with her to fight this just like before, and she wouldn’t be alone. I booked a flight that night. Four days later I was back home. She was already on round-the-clock oxygen, fed through a nasal prong. Her coughing was continuous. She couldn’t lay on her back or else she would feel shortness of breath. She didn’t sleep for more than three hours a night. I knew she was experiencing bad lung symptoms for the previous six weeks or so, but when I saw how bad she was, I couldn’t believe it. I just saw her a couple of months ago, and she was fine.

The worst was the pain in her chest. She said it felt like a tight squeezing, as if her heart was about to stop. One night, we swapped out her oxycontin for another pain medicine that we were told could manage her pain better, but it didn’t work. She howled for hours until it was safe enough to resume the oxycontin again. My little sister was suffering, and all I could do was watch.

We received a new treatment plan from the doctors: eighteen weeks of chemotherapy and three weeks of radiation. Both were to start at the same time. I liked the plan because it was aggressive. We were going to go after this cancer and put it on the defense, but I couldn’t help but notice the word “palliative” on the medical consent forms she signed. I knew it was a form of care that aims for comfort instead of a cure.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t discouraged. There were many stories of people with advanced cancer who survived many years, and not once in her dozens of doctor appointments did I hear the words “death” or “dying.” Everyone knows that we all die, and you know that one day you will die, but we don’t really believe it. Death is something that happens to other people, not us, and not to your kid sister.

Her condition declined so steadily that every day I came to expect a new function or ability that she would lose. I bought a wheelchair because it became too difficult for her to walk, and being her annoying older brother, I wheeled her at a fast speed to give her an adrenaline rush. One time I tried to wheel her over grass, but we got stuck and I accidentally dumped her on the ground. She forgave me, which was easy to do because I tormented her much worse when she was younger and I used to rip off the heads of her Barbie dolls for fun.

She completed her first few days of treatment and then Friday came. She had serious difficulty making it to the car for the trip to the doctor’s office. She saw black in her vision and had to pause for minutes when performing the most basic of movements that I take for granted every day. I was still determined to complete the last radiation session of the week because I knew that without treatment, she wouldn’t make it, and I didn’t want her to die.

I pushed her to try just a little harder, and we made it to the doctor’s office half an hour late. She somehow managed to hold her failing body in the machine to get zapped with radiation. Then she looked at me and told me she was done. She couldn’t make it home. I called 911. While waiting for the ambulance, I called my mom to tell her what was happening, but I was so choked up that no words came out. I had to compose myself and call her again. The ambulance took her to the hospital and she was admitted to the intensive care unit.

Her decline continued in the hospital. The doctors pumped her with so many drugs that I joked with her that she was officially a medical experiment, and that when she got better, she’d appear in all the top medical journals. In addition to the oxycontin she was on, the doctors gave her a patch of fentanyl, a drug so powerful that children have died playing with their parents’ used patches. That wasn’t enough to relieve her pain, so they also put her on a continuous morphine drip.

Her physical pain faded, but at the cost of impairing her mind. She became confused and shared random memories from years ago, but even in this condition, no doctor told us that she was dying. I even used the medical word for dying, “terminal,” to ask the lead doctor if she was indeed dying. He told me that she was “getting to” the terminal phase. I had to read between the lines to know what was going on.

The biggest hint I received was when one doctor showed me side-by-side CT scans of her lungs spaced one month apart. Last month, there were little white specks, but now her lungs looked like Swiss cheese. Part of her left lung collapsed. If those were the scans of any other woman, I’d think she was in dire straits, but this was my sister. I didn’t want to accept that she was dying as much as it was staring me in the face. The doctor said, “We don’t usually treat a patient with cancer this extensive.” I told my mother and father, and we began to prepare for her death in our own ways.

They actually gave her a round of chemotherapy while she was in the hospital. “Our goal is to get her home,” the oncologist said. My dad and I were desperate to try it, thinking that it could help, but chemo takes weeks to begin working. My mother, who has watched her stepmother and sister die of cancer, was more realistic. She prayed for an end to her daughter’s suffering.

She soon needed a mask that delivered 100% pure oxygen. If I were to put that mask on you, you’d pass out quickly, but even with it on, she complained that she felt like she was suffocating. I couldn’t imagine the agony she was going through, and although she had no shortage of people by her side, she was dying alone, experiencing it alone. She grabbed my arm and said, “Brother, I’m scared!” I replied instinctively, “Don’t be scared,” but I was scared too. At that moment I would have done anything to trade places with her, to exchange my healthy body for hers, to die so that she can live. I would have made a deal with the devil if he presented himself before me, but there was no deal to be made as I helplessly watched her approach the abyss.

I couldn’t handle what was happening. Nothing in my life prepared me for this. I snuck in a bottle of scotch to the hospital and started drinking in the nearby family room. I’d sit by her bedside, break down while holding her hand, then go back in the room and drink some more. If she opened her eyes while I was beside her, I’d wipe my face and pretend everything was okay, but she wasn’t fooled, and asked me why I was crying. I kept drinking until the hospital ceiling started to spin. I passed out and my mother put a blanket over me.

The next day, the doctor said, “If she becomes unresponsive, she will likely pass in 24 hours.” I drove home to shower and get a few days’ worth of clothes. On the way back, my mom called me and said “Hurry up” before hanging up the phone. I gripped the steering wheel tight and yelled so loud, in a way that I never have before, that it didn’t at all sound like me.

I arrived at her hospital room. My mother and father were by her bedside. The pulse and blood oxygen readings on the monitor were now replaced with the word “Comfort.” She was unconscious and taking her last breaths. I could hear fluid in her lungs. I paced the room back and forth, repeating “I don’t believe it” while shaking my head. I wanted to grab the television that was hanging on the wall and throw it through the window. I wanted to destroy everything in sight. I wanted to kill myself.

I calmed down long enough to sit by her. I held her and told her that I loved her and will always love her, and that I was sorry this happened to her, and that it was okay for her to go now because it would end her suffering. The space between her breaths got longer and longer. Her limbs turned a faint purple and then her face. My beautiful sister, the most important person in my life, took her last breath. Minutes later, I swear that I could see her chest rising up and down, because there was no other way that I could see my sister other than alive, but she was gone.

I know I’m supposed to stand up here and say she didn’t suffer. I’m supposed to say that she died in peace. But that wouldn’t be the truth. She was in tremendous physical pain that had to be managed with the most powerful drugs made by man, and because the end came so unexpectantly, even for someone with cancer, she was not able to make sense of her dying.

She still had a lot of living to do, a lot of places to see, so she felt robbed that the end came so early. If you put a gun to my head right now, I’d ask you to get on with it and pull the trigger, since I’ve done everything I set out to do, but that wasn’t the case for her, and if there is anything that proves to me that life is inherently unfair, her death is it.

I wish they told us. I wish the doctors said she was dying. At least we would have spent the energy of her last days and months in a different way than fighting a futile battle to keep her alive at such a high physical and emotional cost, of repeatedly having hope after hope crushed as the cancer spread on its own schedule, regardless of what we threw at it. The doctors orchestrated a great charade that only added to her suffering.

I have to say that her death made me feel like a fool. For years I’ve been chasing women, fame, and novelty, thinking that those things would make me happy or somehow complete me when the one thing that could make me happy was so close the entire time. Instead I went to faraway lands, as far as I could, to pursue exotic pleasures and entertainment. They were fun at the time because my family was healthy, my sister was healthy, and I was healthy, but now that all seems so meaningless. I don’t even want to remember those experiences. The only thing I’m scared of is that in a few months, once the pain of her death subsides, I’ll go right back to doing all that, because I don’t know what else my life is for.

A few days before she died, the palliative nurse came by and gave us a packet with the title “My Wishes,” which was actually a funeral planning guide in disguise. It was a way for my sister to express herself in case of death, because as you can tell by now, you’re not supposed to tell someone they’re dying.

We went through the packet and got to a question that asked how you would like to be remembered after you die. I have the packet right here so I’ll read to you what she said in her morphine fog: “I want people to remember me as kind, and that I tried my best to share my love and make people happy.”

As someone who gave way more than she took, I know she will be remembered in this way. When I die, I can tell you that thousands of people will celebrate, and it’s a good thing if you don’t know why that is, but with her that wasn’t the case. She was a big-hearted person through and through, which just adds to the unfairness of it all.

I know a lot of you had crazy times with her at parties or concerts, but our relationship was simply one of steady joy. She was someone I could talk to about whatever came to mind, or I could just sit in silence with her to enjoy her presence. We could play off each other and make ourselves laugh until we cried, or have serious discussions about our lives. She was the first person I would go to when I had a bizarre experience, because I loved hearing her reaction and the jokes she could make from it. I would go to her when I was unsure about a woman, and she would give me an analysis that—in hindsight—was always right.

Before I broke up with my last girlfriend, I first cleared it with her to make sure I wasn’t being too hasty. Before any big decisions, I would always get her thoughts, as if I was launching a nuclear missile and needed her to turn her key. I would even focus group my newest jokes on her before trying them on others, because she would never judge me for being dumb. She was my best friend. She balanced my rigid and overly analytical nature. She made me see the light of things, that there is a play to life, not just the seriousness of seeking perfection and trying to figure every little thing out. She understood me more than anyone else in the world. Who will I trust more than her? Who will I tell my silly stories to now? Who will tell me that I’m going too far down the wrong road? She left me and now I don’t know what to do. Sister, where are you? Why did you leave me? I’m still here! I didn’t know that most of the happiness I experienced in my life was because you were a part of it. 

Late last night I was trying to make sense of her death. I know her well enough that I decided just to ask her what I should do, and see if a voice answered me back. I closed my eyes and remembered when she was in elementary school and I would pick her up from the bus stop every day at 3:15pm. I remembered when I took her to HFStival, her first rock concert, where I watched her carefully from the mosh pit while she sat smiling in a stadium seat. And I remembered all those chemotherapy visits, of helping her get through the toughest part of her life, where our relationship deepened to the purest love that a brother and sister could have. These film reels were playing in my mind when I asked, “What do I do now?” What came back to me was, “Remember me, take care of yourself, I love you.”

I know that life goes on, but it won’t be in the same way. Experiences I have from this point on will come with a different feeling, a different color. The sadness will reduce somewhat, but I know the emptiness will remain, and I’ll just have to make the most of life without her. My wish for you in the years to come is to remember my sister and take care of yourself, and know that if you are in this room, she did have love for you. Thank you for being a part of her life, for making her who she was, and I hope that her spirit will remain close to your heart until the end.

Previously: What To Do If Someone Close To You Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

106 Comments
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M I
M I
1 year ago

A touching eulogy, Roosh.

Tom
Tom
1 year ago
Reply to  M I

I read this at a cafe and everyone was looking to see why my eyes filled with water…thank you Roosh

Kristian Niss
Kristian Niss
1 year ago
Reply to  Tom

yea lol I read this in school. not a good idea

Tom
Tom
1 year ago
Reply to  Kristian Niss

Kristian, exactly. I almost had to run to the bathroom lol. God bless Rooshv’s sister:)

Kitty Tantrum
1 year ago

<3

Carl
Carl
1 year ago

Fucking hell, Roosh.
Took me to the 12th paragraph before I started crying.
I realise I’ve been too selfish to my own loved ones and have to start to treat them better and appreciate more that I still actually have them in my life.
Reading about your time together with your sister was so sad but beautiful in a way, stuff like this shows humanity at its best.

MrLemon
MrLemon
1 year ago

Very very sad.

Uri Katsav
Uri Katsav
1 year ago

A touching piece. I lost my father around the same dates. He died comfortly in a hospital bed surrounded by my mother and his three male children. It has taken me some time to negotiate his death, but time has helped.

Wilson
Wilson
1 year ago

A great piece of writing. It’s good that you were with her, or rather slightly less terrible.

John Freeman
John Freeman
1 year ago

That was tough to read without breaking down at work. Thanks for sharing this.
I lost my sister too, when she was in her thirties. It was sudden and unexpected. Your experience sounds much worse. I didn’t have time to make it to her side and see her in pain, it was just a shocking phone call and then dealing with the logistics. The worst part was knowing what my mother was going through. It will get easier to have positive memories of her the more time passes, that’s all I know to say. Stay strong, a lot of people you have never met need you to stick around.

Tom
Tom
1 year ago

This was a really beautiful eulogy.

Thanks for sharing your experience, and for the brutal honesty.

One of my best friends was treated for cancer last year, and he’s just been told it’s spread to his lungs and liver. The prognosis is good. I know I need to be there for him and try and ease his suffering after reading this.

God bless you Roosh.

I hope you find some peace. Thanks for having the courage to speak truth into the world, and thanks for helping me find some guidance as a young man who felt nothing but hostility growing up.

Tom
Tom
1 year ago
Reply to  Tom

*not good

Alfredo Cabrera
Alfredo Cabrera
1 year ago

I cried hard, dude. This piece made me realize that I need to start treating my loved ones better right now, because ultimately that’s what truly matters. No political bs, no recognition, no ideological craziness, nothing matters when you are in this situation. Your sister’s simple kindness resounds…

Aaron
Aaron
1 year ago

This touched me and helps put life in perspective. Sorry for your loss.

John
John
1 year ago

Heartbreaking but beautiful, Roosh. I have an older sister, and I can really relate to this passage from you,

At that moment I would have done anything to trade places with her, to exchange my healthy body for hers, to die so that she can live. I would have made a deal with the devil if he presented himself before me

Take care.

Gman
Gman
1 year ago

I have been following you since 2011 Roosh, and that was the most powerful piece of writing by far, got really choked up. Dealing with death on a personal level is never easy and puts a lot of things into perspective. Thanks for sharing and my deepest condolences.

Matthew Edgley
Matthew Edgley
1 year ago

That was really hard Roosh. It saddened me to read this, especially imagining it happening to someone I love. Unfortunately it is very likely, and I am so ill-prepared to deal with it. A very Western life dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure really doesn’t leave much room for the more important needs that are other people. I don’t know how I would deal with it. This sad piece made me realize that. I’m sorry about your loss.

I didn’t just pull this off some random feel-good section of the internet, but this comes directly from my favorite book, the pages worn and yellow because I have read it so much. I hope it helps you:

“Someone who has abandoned worn-out garments
sets out to clothe himself in brand-new rainment;
Just so, when it has cast off worn-out bodies,
The embodied one will encounter others.

‘This may not be pierced by weapons,
Nor can this be consumed by flames;
Flowing waters cannot drench this,
Nor blowing winds desicate this.

‘Not to be pierced, not to be burned,
Neither drenched nor desicated–
Eternal, all pervading, firm,
Unmoving, everlasting this!

‘This has been called unmanifest,
Unthinkable, and unchanging;
Therefore, because you know this now,
You should not lament, Arjuna.

‘But even if you think that this
Is born and dies time after time,
Forever, O great warrior,
Not even then should you mourn this.

‘Death is assured to all those born,
And birth is assured to all the dead;
You should not mourn what is merely
Inevitable consequence.”

Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2: 22-27

Sauga_Man
Sauga_Man
1 year ago

You are a courageous and honest man, Roosh. God bless you.

Sauga_Man
Sauga_Man
1 year ago
Reply to  Sauga_Man

And I really miss your live streams; can’t wait till the next one.

Phil
Phil
1 year ago

Like others, I cried reading this. Roosh, I’ve followed your work for years and have never posted.
Blessed be the memory of your sister. I extend my deepest sympathies to you, Roosh, to your mother and to your father.

Apex Predator
Apex Predator
1 year ago

This must have been gut wrenching to read aloud and also for the people gathered there because it is so different than the normal ‘sanitized’ eulogies we so often hear. I’m glad you had the courage to power through it. I don’t know if I could have done the same for a younger sibling. I’m sure you were overcome w/ grief while delivering it.

I’ve lost MANY people around me in the past few years. Some to cancer, some younger than your sister. It has recalibrated me about what is truly important in life. And it also made me realize, like you probably have, life is -quite- fragile. You are not guaranteed a single moment here whatsoever.

So when you see this perverse vapid consumer driven lifestyle. These robots walking around in the digitized zombie fog, it makes it even more frustrating. We can care for ourselves and those close to us. You’ve had a year to reflect now so I’m assuming you are along the same journey I had to take. Given your twitter post related to this I feel that the wisdom associated with loss and what has true value is being revealed to you. That is a gift brother. You can thank your sister in some part for it.

info
info
1 year ago

Do you believe in an afterlife?

Sean
1 year ago

Modern people are afraid of death, and that fear hurts us.

Roosh did not know she was going to die, when they knew she was.

I did not know my mom was going to die until 3 days before she did.
Until then, she was just getting her “treatment” and “checking in.”
They said she was getting better, and she seemed to be doing
better than the initial drop in health when her chemo/radiation started.

That is, she improved until they blasted her with anti-biotics on top of
chemo and radiation. Anyone dealing with what Roosh or I has gone through
knows that those last few days of slowly drawn out death are the longest
days you will ever live.

Lets be brutally honest folks:
How many people have died of cancer vs. cancer treatments?

Anyone who has seen the death of a cancer patient drawn out
by the modern medical establishment knows the answer.

I would not wish anyone, not even my worst enemy, to go out like this.

Thanks for sharing your story Roosh. Very powerful.

I hope this article reaches millions and shifts each and
every reader’s focus to what actually matters in this life.

CMQK
CMQK
1 year ago
Reply to  Roosh

My sincere condolences, Roosh. Been following you for years, first time I’m leaving a comment here.
I’m not judging and I can only imagine how tough and difficult it must be to make these kinds of decisions in the midst of a cancer diagnosis, but I was actually quite surprised to read that you went down the mainstream cancer treatment route. Having researched alternative medicine as well as the mainstream cancer and pharmaceutical industry for years, I’ve long felt that I would NEVER ever subject someone close to me – or myself, for that matter – to the cancer-industrial complex. There are plenty of cheap, much safer and healthier treatments and natural injections I would try first before even thinking about chemo, radiation, etc.
Again, I haven’t been in this situation myself so far, so I guess it’s easy for me to say, but I encourage everyone to do more research into natural/alternative cancer treatments.
At any rate, I also feel like this was a very powerful eulogy and an important reminder of what really matters in life. Thanks for that, Roosh!
Greetings to all readers, God bless.

Pablo
Pablo
1 year ago
Reply to  CMQK

My father had his cancer surgically removed and it came back stronger. After that he decided to dump mainstream treatments and he went fully alternative and he got cured. I saw that with my own eyes and I was trully amazed. Anyways, I’m sorry for your loss Roosh, you made me cry and deeply appreciate things.

Bound for Glory
Bound for Glory
1 year ago
Reply to  CMQK

Cancer thrives in an acidic environment. Cancer cannot survive in an alkaline environment. Acidic is low pH while alkaline is a high pH. I’m talking about your blood/body pH. pH is an abbreviation of “potential of Hydrogen”.

So to prevent and even reverse cancer you have to raise your blood/body pH level. One easy and affordable way to do this is to drink water (a lot of it) with a pH well above seven. Water like this is available at some health food stores at a kiosk located inside. Like Whole Foods. I use my local Sprouts. All you have to do is stop drinking tap water and sodas and other bad stuff and buy some 1 or 3 or 5 gallon containers for storing and a dispenser, for, well, dispensing the good water into your drinking cups or glasses. There are also numerous high-pH foods you can look into. This simple method is all about make your blood/body alkaline instead of acidic.

Ever heard of a “doctor” telling a patient about these little facts? It’s called the cancer industry for a reason. And what is with the weird little term “treating cancer”? Should the cancer industry be CURING CANCER?

Condolences Roosh. What a heartbreaking story.

miforest
miforest
1 year ago
Reply to  Roosh

My condolences on your loss . lost my step brother a few decades ago . still miss him .
My daughter is an ICU nurse at the big urban hospital in downtown Detroit.
She believes it is her calling in life to bring comfort, care and compassion to people in your sisters condition. she advocates and intercedes for her patients with the Doc’s and admins. She is a person of great faith. She tells me all the time of the courage and grace of people like your sister all the time.

PSM
PSM
1 year ago
Reply to  Roosh

I would beg to differ, Roosh. There are much greater profits to be had in the chemotherapy route.

My wife got to know a homeopathic healer here in Germany who has saved several lives through non-traditional methods, including our neighbor, who was diagnosed with terminal beast cancer (four or five years ago).

That healer has changed my wife’s life as well, especially in that she no longer needs to take expensive, minimally-effective probiotic treatments for her intestine now.

Matt Edge
Matt Edge
1 year ago
Reply to  PSM

Who is this healer in Germany?
I speak German and would love to meet him/her next time I’m there. My gf has arthritis and I would love to see a homopathic person.

Abdul the wise
Abdul the wise
1 year ago
Reply to  PSM

Can i please get the name of this healer?

Asitis
Asitis
1 year ago
Reply to  Roosh

You are just as much to blame to be honest. You pushed your sister until her body gave out. You indirectly helped kill your sister Roosh. You should have listened to her

Matt Edge
Matt Edge
1 year ago
Reply to  Asitis

Nice try faggot. But you weren’t there. And if that was you then you probably would have acted the same.

randomdoc
randomdoc
1 year ago
Reply to  Roosh

my condolences and it was heart wrenching to read this.
i’ve been following you for years (at least since 2008 or earlier…)
i’m at work right now so didnt have a chance to compose my thoughts better but just as a side note, i work as a physician (cardiac electrophysiologist, not an oncologist) and ultimately i guess you can say that we have no skin in the game but for the most part we are haunted by our failures (or at least most of us are). Doctors are also human and don’t know everything. sometimes patients get better, sometimes they don’t. Maybe we have an inkling that some may not get better but we try to be optimistic. I can’t speak for every doctor out there but I try to be honest regarding prognosis and optimistic if appropriate, especially since i manage lots of patients with end stage heart failure.

Gurug
Gurug
1 year ago

Life is precious, thanks for the reminder. Sorry for your loss

KnitOne Perl2
KnitOne Perl2
1 year ago

Oh, Roosh. So sorry for this loss. Having seen lung cancer first hand, I know it to be a monster. But then, so is the radiation/chemo combo.

Our family will be praying for yours.

randomA
randomA
1 year ago

It destroyed my heart. I cried.

James
James
1 year ago

Memory eternal. It’s sad that your sister suffered for a time here on Earth, but it is nothing to her now – she has made the passage and now has eternal life. She is suffering no longer, and nevermore. Those of us left here are the ones who must bear the burden of our beloveds’ passing, and all we can do is take solace in the good times we had with them, that they are in a better place, and the comforting truths that were written for us millenia ago.

splooge
splooge
1 year ago

sorry for your loss, been there. Having a big family youll see too many funerals. But least in those conservative parts of the family least alot of births. Seeing death over and over again is uncomfortably but desensitizing and youll always see the brighter side of things as a cope I suppose.

also
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1Ftp7V1Lvs

anyone here notice the same anti male rhetoric just colored different here. Think we can see an xyz arguement here.
this would be the liberal non breeding dying side of the family

Hans
Hans
1 year ago

An experience like this must really fundamentally change the way you look at the world. May your sister rest in peace and may you find the strength and courage to carry on the Valizadeh torch.

roger
roger
1 year ago

You want to know what scares me? There’s no-one I love enough to write a eulogy like that about, and I’m goddamn sure there’s no-one that would write anything close to that about me. I’ve fucked up, and I don’t know if it’s too late.

James
James
1 year ago
Reply to  roger

It’s never too late to change, brother.

screwy
screwy
1 year ago
Reply to  roger

It’s horrible that literally every person alive comes from a “family” yet so many of us have ended up in your situation. The epidemic of broken families is staggering and what you’ve expressed is way too familiar.

I just recently came to the realisation that it’s impossible for me to have a healthy relationship with my own father. On one hand it was a relief to recognise that it wasn’t entirely my fault we’re not closer, but on the other I can’t overstate how much it hurt to lose the hope that there was something I could do right to be able to have that relationship.

Anyway, what I came to understand some time ago that changed my life for the better was that even when we come from very broken families, there’s nothing truly preventing us from creating new, strong, loving families that are everything we wished we had, everything we know the world needs, even if it means finding a model in examples outside of our own personal experiences and going on a journey of discovery.

I’m married now and browsing on my phone while I wait for my tiny daughter to finish nursing so we can go to sleep. Her dad hasn’t had the ideal personal experience of family either, but we’re both intent on what we’re going to create together now, drawing on all the lessons we’ve learned the hard way. I don’t know what the future holds, but I believe in us like I’ve never believed in anything before. Believing any of this was possible was the first step to getting out of a very dark hole and making meaningful new human connections.

I hope you’re wrong. I can very easily believe that you are, because so many people who feel the way you do are very wrong. I hope you’re able to find out for yourself soon. While you’ve got more life to live, don’t wait to live it well.

Best of luck.