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The day my father was told he had terminal melanoma—October 1999—my world cracked open in a way I never imagined possible. I remember sitting in that sterile hospital room, fluorescent lights humming overhead, as the doctor’s words floated through the air like they were meant for someone else. Terminal. Metastatic. Brain involvement. One to three months. I heard the words, but they didn’t land. It felt like the ground beneath me vanished, like I had been pushed out of my own

Navigating the journey of grief