Before I started it occurred to me even if I could make that interesting for the reader (there's a fair amount of angst there, no matter how much I generally try and downplay it, I could probably manage it) there are any number of people who wouldn't appreciate me spilling that all out in the public forum.
My mother's been casually mentioning her own demise since I was eighteen, and fifteen years ago I attributed that to the fact her own mother died when she was eighteen. Now it feels a little more...foreboding. A little more like she feels like she needs to remind me that she's older than most of my friend's parents. Last fall my father had a random health thing that sent me racing back for KC at the drop of a hat, because he was on a ventilator and that's fairly terrifying at any time, but at seventy-two it's particularly worrying.
Now, in honesty, for nearly-seventy-plus ex-smokers they're in remarkably good health. We had a lovely visit and my mother followed Little J around and gave him absolutely anything he could ask for (as is her right as his grandmother). We went to see the Treasures of King Tut exhibit and took little J out to visit my cousin's farm where he proceeded to beg me at length to let him hatch a chicken egg and take it home. I heard a story about my grandfather I'd apparently never been old enough to hear before.
But every actual, honest thought I could share about all that winds up being right back at that xkcd comic there at the top.
I think I may not share this post with the general Face-book populace.