Your story sounds like my grandmother's story. I was 12 years old when she had her first big stroke.
After that, the blood thinners, the pacemaker, the mini-strokes, the pill diet, and the gloom & doom predictions.
The information I got from my mother (probably over dramatized by her) that she got from my grandmother (probably over dramatized by her) and from the doctors (probably over dramatized by them) convinced me that I probably wouldn't have a grandma much longer.
I made the necessary mental preparations. I accepted that her next stroke would likely be her last. And when the next stroke came, I was ready. My heart was hard, braced for shock. She lived. I breathed a sigh of relief and I accepted that her next stroke would likely be her last. And when the next stroke came, I was ready. My heart was hard, braced for shock. She lived. I breathed a sigh of relief ... (repeat X dozens of times).
It turned into me just "waiting for her time to come..." (probably next year)... for almost 2 decades.
In those 18 years I grew apart from her. Cold as it may sound, she was already dead to me, several times over.
I had worked so hard to prepare myself for her to be gone that I grew to think of her as already gone.
She passed 2 weeks ago from dementia. Her funeral felt like a mere formality, and I have a lot of regretful and even guilty feelings about that.
The point of my story is, don't let the doctor's predictions about your condition change you or the way you think about yourself.
Control the dissemination of information about your condition so as not to cause undue alarm in your family.
Don't let a prognosis end you before you're done.