It isn’t too alarming, when the first grey hairs start to sprout. It’s actually amusing and becomes a bit of an obsession, trying to get at all of them with a pair of tweezers.

Until there’s more grey than your natural hair color and getting at all of them with a pair of tweezers could leave you with a bald patch. But that’s nothing that a trip to a salon can’t fix. You might even enjoy playing around with different colors and have highlights in your hair that you never had.

And then, one day, while at a restaurant, without meaning to, you’ll move the menu ever so slightly away from you – just to be able to read it. That’s when a chill will run through your bones. That’s what old people do. How did I get here and how do I stop it?

And then it’s one reminder after another – a line on your face that wasn’t there before, that bit of excess weight that you can’t get rid of, the niggling pain that your doctor will tell you is consistent with someone “of your age”. If you felt that you were invincible and eternal before, time will remind you of your mortality and let you know that, no, your destiny is not in your hands.

We are all marching – some slowly, some quite forcibly – towards death. But, before our time is up, death creeps closer and closer – by claiming our loved ones first.

Nicolas’ father is dying of cancer. He thinks he has, at the most, three more weeks to live.

My uncle is dying of cancer. He also has Alzheimer’s and his mind is deteriorating at the same rate as his body. It should be a matter of days now, if not hours.

Last January, my uncle was still fit enough to attend his brother-in-law’s death anniversary memorial. He looked a little older but he was still very sociable, in spite of the Alzheimer’s, and confidently introduced himself to the other guests.

A few weeks ago, I went to visit him with some cousins and, in the month that we hadn’t seen him, he had noticeably shrunk and turned yellow (- he has liver cancer).

I could see the lights in his eyes flicker on and off. Sometimes, tears would well up in his eyes and he would look completely panic-stricken. Our chatter must have confused him and our laughter must have caused him worry.

It must be terrifying to be alone in the dark when the lights go off.

And then the lights would turn on again and, even if he had a hard time articulating himself, he thanked us for “changing the atmosphere” that day. Our visit couldn’t have been easy for him, physically and mentally, and yet he sat with us for nearly three hours, refusing to show any sign of weakness. (My uncle loved having company and, since he got sick, I heard he felt lonely being at home by himself.)

My dad probably won’t like my saying this but my uncle, even if he was one of the eldest in a brood of ten, looked the youngest, and was the most good-looking among the Olivares brothers. (My dad has three sisters and six brothers, one of whom we never met because he died very young, and the other passed away at the age of 59 many years ago.) He was tall and trim, his face unlined, and he was always smartly dressed. He shared his brothers’ sense of humor and was constantly making jokes so that when the Alzheimer’s started to manifest itself, we weren’t quite sure if he was kidding or if he really couldn’t remember who we were.

He’s aged faster in these past months than he’s had in his 79 years. He’s lost a lot of weight and chemotherapy has thinned his hair. Pain has etched permanent lines on his face.

Seeing him waste away like this is heartbreaking. It’s bad enough that we all have to die and that we all have to face death alone. The pain and suffering that go along with it seem to be pointless cruelty. You’d think that we’d at least be afforded the dignity of a graceful exit.

Nicolas and I have talked about death a lot recently. He says that he would rather die a quick and violent death than get sick. I, on the other hand, would want to know the what, where and when. (And no violence, please. A cello perhaps?)

I’d like to be able to say goodbye to the people I love, to put things in order, maybe have a few drinks – and a few pints of ice cream – and then calmly face death and say, no, this is not how my story will end and leave this life in a manner of my choosing.