As i watched him die i found it hard to remember how he'd lived. I found it hard to think of the twenty years i'd known him as my favourite uncle and thought only of the year he'd been a cancer patient. I could barely recognise him, so swollen because of the steroids, so drugged up he was barely even him. I could have sat at the bedside all night and all day but apparently life went on. I was supposed to continue on as if nothing was happening, as if every second i didn't feel him ebbing slowly away. I thought about him every one of those seconds, even when i pretended i wasn't. I could hardly drag myself out of bed every day that week. I had to be so far away but couldn't concentrate on anything. Nothing was as important as this. I couldn't stay away even though the others didn't think it was good for me to be there. I said goodbye each time i left just incase he wasn't there when i came back the next day.
