Here's how he is doing with that.
He progresses slowly, but at nearly 88 years old, "progress" is also a euphemism. This man, who never met a medical intervention he didn't like, refused further invasive diagnostic procedures. And he's become a bit giddy with self-management, like a two-year-old who just discovered the word "no," refusing things just to see if he can.
My other commitments have proven stressful, not nourishing. So I dropped my class at rabbinical school and I pulled out of volunteering at the nursing home. (Actually, I AM volunteering at a nursing home, just for a party of two instead of a whole room.) For the first time in my life, I make a conscious choice not to busy myself with to-do lists that will subversively distract me from my feelings. Because everything is changing and a world I knew is coming to end. Distractions will not prevent that and so I might as well be fully and truly present.
Little by little, I test out the hypothesis that I won't die from feeling sad.
I take breaks for that which comforts me: hiking, stitching, getting winter camp in place. My socializing is skeletal and primarily canine. (Himself is tickled to learn that he made the short list of people I can tolerate at the moment.
"Wow," he hums as he pushes out his chest in pride. "My wife can TOLERATE me!"
I remind him that the list is in pencil.
And above all, I try to spend sunrise in the field that the developer built me.