Ok, so this isn't as ironic, but I can tell you who I dealt with it.
My 89 year old grandma was robbed on day, and later, still in shock, fell down the stairs at home. She went to the hospital due to some injury that made it nearly impossible for her to walk. She got sick at the hospital because she hurt herself on a broken walker when she was walking around with the therapist. Due to medication they nearly fucked up her liver. The doctors wondered how she was still alive. She got better, back to the old, healthy blood levels, and she was really optimistic. She got home for two days, organized her stuff, hid some letters, and the she could finally go to a health resort. After two days she died because the doctor gave her 4 times the amount of antihypertensives, that she should have gotten, as she already had low blood pressure.
At the funeral, I was really sad, because she was such a strong women, who raised her kids after war and survived all the other treatments at hospital, even though nobody thought she would make it. I don't care if she was 89 years old. She had this really strong will to live and at the hospital they nearly accidently killed her 2 times until it actually happened at the health resort. We were slowly walking to the grav,e when I started realising that my parents were starting to look confused. Turns out, they digged up the wrong grave. They first refused to dig the grave because it was friday afternoon so we went to eat. 3 hours later we could bury her next to her husband.
How did we deal with her death?
Yeah, ok, I get it, she was 89 and had a long fullfilling life.
She didn't suffer too much and didn't have Alzheimer's.
My father wrote a little poem inspired by her, usually pretending, that she did not fall asleep during conversation, even though she was asleep. The pastor refered to the poem, after we stood at the wrong grave:
I'm not down there, I don't sleep.
I'm in your hearts, when you are happy, I'm in your ears, when you talk about me, I'm in your eyes when you smile, (etc., rough translation)
I don't sleep, I'm not down there.
First I disliked the repetition of "I'm not down there" at the end. But the pastor told us, how it is pretty true. There were so many reasons for that she should've already been burried, but she still wasn't. It fit so well, that I tought it was meant to be.