My daughter is in an interesting head space today. She finished the first novel she's read in which there is not a happy ending: some dogs die.
I remember my first encounter with real death, on my grandparents' farm in the Lake District. I saw a dead sheep. Same age as Claire when it happened.
My grandma had died in 1974 (not the Lake District one). But I hadn't registered it. It was easier to see it in a nonhuman perhaps.
As for me right now, I guess I share the sentiment of the Dalai Lama, who says “I'm almost looking forward to it, to see whether my training works.” Emphasis on almost.