Chip.

I deal with illness all the time, with dying, with coronary arteries and clots and S-T segment changes showing the suffocating death of those precious cells of heart muscle.  I observe, analyze, and act based on protocol and instinct, keeping calm above the clamor of it all, knowing that seconds are critical and that life hangs in the balance.  And then I go home, pour myself a glass of milk, feed the chickens, laugh with my Honeybunch, and play with my cats.  Life goes on for me, largely unchanged, after some person's body wages the battle of its lifetime against the inevitable.

And then it comes home.  It's an altogether different experience when those little waveform changes on the telemetry strip usher a friend of your found-family into their next life. 

He was a kind man, generous with his affection, treating us like long-lost niece and nephew, planning a piece of stained glass as a wedding gift, lending me books on conservative political ideology, ever reading, ever learning.  He'll be remembered, and his characteristic limp will missed when we gather around the bonfire to share stories, music and wine.  We raised our glasses of whiskey in your honor this morning, friend.