Since I’m on a roll with odd topics, I think one of the strangest parts of getting older is seeing more and more people you know start dying.

Throughout life, I’ve had friends pass away for various reasons — some tragic, some expected — but it never used to happen this often. These days, opening Facebook feels like opening an obituary column for my graduating class. Another name, another memory frozen in time.

Someone once said there are only two sure things in life: death and taxes. We all know about taxes — and death, well, we try not to think about it until it starts showing up in our notifications.

One of the weirdest things about seeing those posts is how I still picture people as they were — sixteen, seventeen, laughing at something stupid in the hallway or the barracks. Unless I’ve had an adult relationship with someone later in life, that’s where my mind goes. It’s jarring to remember that the kid I knew is now someone’s obituary photo.

Before anyone had a name for it, I was deep in what we now call imposter syndrome. In my early twenties, and even into my thirties, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just pretending to be an adult. I still remember signing for my first tank and all the basic issue gear that came with it, thinking, “Shouldn’t an adult be supervising me?” The only “adults” around were barely older than I was. My first lieutenant was literally my age, and most of my sergeants were only a few years ahead.

That sense of “who let me be in charge of this?” never really went away — it just changed shape over time.

Speaking of age and wear, I recently had a total shoulder replacement. I’d love to say it was just normal wear and tear, but let’s be honest: my misspent youth had a lot to do with it. Years of pushing through injuries, hauling gear, and doing the whole combat arms thing left their mark. Most of my friends who served in combat specialties are feeling the same effects now. Even so, this is one of the few things in my life that I can say I don’t regret — not even a little.

Recovery has given me a lot of time to think (and a few moments of what may have been either an opiate haze or actual clarity). Somewhere in that fog, I had a realization I’ve avoided saying out loud: I wasn’t sad that he was gone. Not in the way people expect. I didn’t want him gone that way, and I’ll never wish that on anyone, but the relief of him no longer being in my life outweighed the rest. That’s a hard truth to admit, and I know not everyone will understand it. But after years of living in something toxic and breaking down, I had already reached the point of being done. His death just closed the book I’d already stopped reading.

That strange absence of grief — or at least the unconventional version of it — even made the detective suspicious at first. But the evidence was clear: VA badge swipes, camera footage, chart logs, call records, home security — all of it showed I wasn’t there, I wasn’t involved, and it wasn’t mine to own. His decision was his alone. There’s a long, tangled history between us, but that part is simple truth.

So yeah, maybe not the most cheerful return to blogging. Sorry for the grim tone and the delay — I’ve spent most of the past week barely moving, dozing off, and trying not to sneeze (trust me, sneezing after shoulder surgery is not an Olympic sport you want to try).

Last night, I finally made it back into the Wasteland — my first time in over a week. Even pixelated radiation feels like home these days. It’s not that I want to live there, exactly, but it’s the best distraction I’ve found with my current limitations.

Through all of it, my dog and my mom have remained my constant believers — perfectly content to follow me down whatever road I choose next. Maybe that’s all the “adult supervision” I ever really needed.