Disappearing before our eyes

I visited my cousin Frank at the Palliative Care home last night. There was a crowd of family and friends just outside his room, reminising about Frank and sharing other stories.

I went in and sat with Frank for a few minutes. I tried to take his hand into mine and Frank twisted his hand so that we took the shaking position where the thumbs are gripping rather than the hand (I don't know what this type of handshake is called). I said "Hi Frank" and he responded with a very quiet "Hi Dave" and that's all I could get out of him.

With hand squeezes and eye movement, I could see that he could obviously hear me and understood what I was saying. The effort required to speak at that moment was more than he could handle. I said what I wanted to say (which was part of what I posted yesterday about squandering our time, foolishly allowing us to drift apart), and I could see or sense that his reply was something along the lines of "Don't be silly. There's nothing to forgive."

Last year, I thought there could be nothing worse than losing a father at 64 years of age. Now I'm learning that there's something to said for losing a beloved cousin at 31 years of age.