The Sixth of May

Every year on the sixth of May, at some point I remember and it hits me all over again...

My father died on the 6th of May.  Years later, Hubs' best friend's funeral was on the 6th of May.  Needless to say, it's not a good day for me.  

Dad's been gone for 20+ years now.  It wasn't a shock.  We knew he was going.  He chose to go, in his own way, and he let us know his decision ahead of time, so we were prepared.  He didn't kill himself.  He simply chose to refuse dialysis after over a decade of dialyzing.  We understood and supported his decision.  He was tired and he had earned a rest.  He missed one dialysis and he was gone that night.  

Cancer got Phil.  It wasn't expected, but it wasn't a shock either.  We'd hoped he would beat it.  He didn't. Damn him. He was the best friend Hubs had and a good friend of mine, too. When things got bad for Hubs at work, I'd drop into Phil's office and talk it out with him - something I couldn't do with anyone else.  Phil understood.  Phil would be just as pissed as I was and we'd commiserate.  Then he was gone.  I don't remember the exact date he died, but I remember the date of his funeral because it was the anniversary of Dad's death.  I swear Phil did that on purpose so I would cry at his funeral.  He was that kind of guy.  A real troublemaker and a hoot to be around.  He was such a card.  

Anyway, the pain of their passing has boiled down so it only really hurts when I poke at it.  Like now.  

I expect Dad and Phil are somewhere today, drowning worms and drinking beer, and spinning yarns.  They'd both tell me to get over myself and get on with life.

So that's what I'm going to do.