What's normal?
I watched my late-in-life mentor/these last recent 2 years friend/me-life-changing devout Buddhist John Haydon white son of an inventor die at 53, consumed by a cancer of absolutely no use to human progress.
I saw the grams. John's cancer was black. His organs were disappearing. Cancer draped his torso without mercy, like a drum corps filling a hall. Cancer killed him, painfully. At the end there was far more cancer than John. Cancer replaced John.
Kate was his beloved. They were made for each other. Guthrie, John's son, was every solace known to human hearts. Brother Jim was always there; always; none of it easy.
John Haydon wrote a profound book as he died. Did you hear John's light knock on your door? Nothing disturbing. He lived small. He lived away. He wanted nothing from you. He hoped though for your best.