I met Ray in Alaska when I was thirty.

I was traveling, not looking for anything. Just moving through the world, open. I didn’t expect to meet anyone, let alone fall into something real. But there he was. It happened fast. There was a calmness about it. A pull. It felt like something I was supposed to follow.

We stayed together for a bit in Alaska, then went to Hawaii, then all over the country.
Two people floating around, finding little pieces of home in each other.
We had two boys. We started a business.
We got married.
We got divorced.

The romantic part of our relationship ended about four years ago. There’s no confusion about that. I’m not holding on to him. I don’t wish things had gone differently. That chapter is closed, and I’ve let it go.

But Ray is still the father of my children.
And now, I am preparing for his death.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

Ray is a lifelong alcoholic.
He drinks every single day.
He had a mini stroke recently. The MRI showed no visible damage, and medication brought his blood pressure down—but that doesn’t change what we already know. His body is shutting down slowly. And the next event won’t be a warning. It will be the end.

He told me recently, without much emotion, “I don’t think I’ll be around to see the boys grow up.”
He knows.
And I know.

So now we’re doing something that feels almost surreal: we’re preparing.

I asked him for his military records so I can arrange his cremation.
I asked him to make sure the boys are listed as the beneficiaries on his life insurance.
I asked him to name me as an emergency contact on his medical documents so someone will call me when it happens.
I asked him to give me all the photos he has of himself with the kids.
I asked him to write them letters. Something for when they’re older. Something to hold onto when he’s not there.

We’re planning a professional photo shoot with him and the boys.
We’re going camping this weekend. Me, Ray, and our sons.
One more memory.

It’s a strange, quiet kind of grief.
Not because I still love him romantically—I don’t. That part has long since died.
But because this was someone I once built a life with.
He was there for some of the most important moments of my adult life.
He helped bring my children into the world.

And soon, he will be gone.

Preparing for someone’s death while they’re still alive is something I don’t think people talk about enough.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s not cinematic.
It’s paperwork. Conversations. Logistics. Watching your kids play while knowing they won’t have their father much longer.

It’s the constant, quiet work of holding it all—while staying steady for everyone else.

I am not trying to save Ray. I gave up on that a long time ago.
But I am trying to protect my sons from some of the pain that’s coming.
I want them to have pictures. Words. Evidence that their father loved them, even if he couldn’t stay.

I don’t know how much time he has.
Six months? A year? Less?
There’s no way to know.
But I do know this: I will grieve when he goes.

Not because we didn’t get our happy ending.
But because we once had a life together.
Because my children will grow up without their father.
And because this—watching someone slowly fade—is a different kind of heartbreak altogether.

This is what it means to prepare for someone’s death.
It’s not a single moment.
It’s not one decision.
It’s a long, slow letting go.
One conversation at a time.