I don't have any grandparents (except for one really funky step-grandmother). Two thirds of them died before I was born, and the last died when I was in school. Cancer ... a real problem in our family. Grandpa Ken was the last to go. I remember vividly his journey - fraught with pneumonia every winter, prostate cancer was eventually the killer. I remember many visits to the hospital thinking that this visit was the last and he'd be gone soon. I remember how he stuck on to his life. As a resolute accountant and ex-British soldier, he hung on. And he hung on. It was painful. There were times we had wished he would just let go, and rest.

Standing at his deathbed, I had remarked to my mom how much Grandpa Ken had held on. She reflected on how different the story was with her mom (his wife), and how quickly and easily she had journeyed to her final rest. She said, "It's like she knew where she was going, and that made it easier to go. But it seems Grandpa Ken doesn't have the same assurance".

This memory surfaced today as I listened to Redi Direko talk about Baby Amillia who is the fourth smallest baby and earliest surviving premature baby.  read more »