Well, we’re (obviously) at the end of 2013, and I’m not sad to see it go one bit. I usually have a strict rule against wishing any minute of my life away, but this year won’t be missed. It was memorable, and I learned a lot. I’m not sorry I went through it because of that, but I wouldn’t want to relive it, at all.

Christmas was bittersweet. I loved seeing my family. I loved having them around me, feeling their warmth, knowing we were all taking a little comfort in being with one another at the end of this wearying year. But I missed my brother. I knew his absence would be strongly felt, but I couldn’t get exactly how that would feel until I was in the situation. And while I enjoyed my time at Christmas immensely, I needed his mischevious smile, his constant teasing, punctuated by looks of utter softness and love. Or I wanted them, anyway, and their absence left a hole. I know from experience that the hole will fill with other things, feel less raw, as time goes on. I know that in the future, missing him will mostly feel like reminiscing about the things he brought to the table that I loved so much. I know that next Christmas will be easier. And none of that knowing takes away the present feeling of grief, so I’m just letting myself feel it.

All this grieving, though, it makes me tired. More tired than I already am from the surgery, and the heart problems, and the worry about radiation. Because it’s not just about Mike. It’s about all of the insults this year has brought. All of them, added together. It creates in me this naive expectation that 2014 will be better, as if at midnight, something clicks and my luck changes. I know that’s not how it works, that December 31st and January 1st are actually only separated by a pretty arbitrary date line, but I want so badly to think all of this ends within a matter of hours, and my life drastically improves once the clocks strike midnight. I mean, not just for me. Actually, mainly not for me. Since Miko was six, we have lost five people in our close circle. Five people in five years. I want her to know a year with no death, without the next year making up for it by bringing two deaths. I want to look at my parents and not see the grief and the worry in their eyes. I want all the people I love to just be able to enjoy whatever is occupying them from moment to moment, without the obstacles of mourning or fear.

But I can’t control that. Or much of it, anyway. I can start radiation on the 2nd, and dutifully complete the entire regimen, or as much of it as my body allows, to minimze the chance that they will have to mourn me as well. I can try to be present in my own moments, allowing myself to feel whatever those moments bring me. I can be cognizant that it is important to reach out to my family and friends more often, even if it’s not in my habit, and even when I’m frustrated with them, because I don’t know how much longer any of us has. I can say yes to experiences more often, like my brother did, because who regrets a fuller life? I can be grateful for all the good little (and big) things, even (or maybe especially) when they’re brought because of the bad stuff. I can give my time and energy to only those things, experiences, and people who sustain me, help me grow, or make me feel loved. I can offer love when I see grief in the faces of those I love (or even just like), since I can’t protect them from having to experience it in the first place.

And I can hope. I can hope that the radiation does its job, that 2014 offers my circle a repreive from sickness and death, and that by the end of the year, we’re all a little sad to see it go.