Woody Allen once said “I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
There is no way to adequately deal with death.
Despite being the only predictability it always seems to hit unexpectedly, haphazardly. Inevitable but anarchic, it turns your stomach inside out, leaving disordered and painful ruminations on your own existence and those close to you.
The passing of a cancer-stricken uncle earlier this year (in Pakistani parlance, a family friend) is the first time death feels as close as a cold breath.