As the sun started to set he drew his last breath, exhaled, and was gone.

The first time I meet him, I am 17 years old.
We pull into the driveway, and I am introduced to the family.
He is quiet, but welcoming. He invites me into his home.

He is a teacher, a father, a husband, and uncle.
His ties to his community are strong, as are the ties to his old school and family in his home country. He works hard to maintain friendships and keep in touch with everyone.

I begin to learn words from a different language.
He is Thathi to his children.
He is Punchimama to my father-in-law.
He is Uncle to my husband, to me, and to our children.
To many he is their teacher, or friend.

Over the next few years, I grow into this family, and they accept me.
We have different skin colours, different cultures, different backgrounds.
He always makes me feel welcome, and I have a sense of belonging.
He is especially kind. A true gentleman.

Over the years I come to know him well.
I watch as he cares for his wife who has Alzheimer’s.
He lovingly cooks for her, bathes her, reads to her.
Even after she moves to a nursng home, he continues his care and cooks for her every day, takes the meals and lovingly feeds her.

He sits with her in her last hours.
I see his heart break when she dies, and the light go out of his eyes.
His world is upside down. He has lost the woman he eloped with, moved continents with, travelled with, raised a family with.
He is wounded, but not broken.

He is grateful for everything.
He begins to rebuild his life, devotes himself to his children and grandchildren. He meets with friends, goes for walks, talks to everyone in his community.
Everyone calls him Uncle.

He cooks for others, for temple, for family.
His wadi, fish cutlets and sambal surpass all others.
His curries are amazing.
He loves to entertain, to talk about cricket, politics and travel.

In the 2003 bushfires, he drives into the heart of the crisis to try to protect his daughter’s family home. He is devastated to learn it is gone, along with many treasured possessions. He supports her and her family as they rebuild their lives.

Eventally living at home alone becomes difficult.
He is lonely and tired.
He chooses a care home, moves himself in,
and decides to make the best of it.

He starts ‘happy hour’ and shares his whisky with anyone who will join him. They debate politics, talk about the cricket, shake their heads at the state of the world.

He begins a scrabble club and beats everyone else, every time.
He participates in playgroup, activities, sing-a-longs.
He flourishes. The care staff all love him. He becomes Uncle to them all.

He mourns as one by one the members of his friendship group drink their last whisky, or play their last scrabble game.

When his daughter is dying from cancer, he sits by her side. He hangs his head in sorrow, quietly watches her struggle, and wishes it was him instead.
When she dies, another part of him dies too.
He and his son comfort each other, lost in a world of grief.

He calls me and asks me to visit him.
He wants to write his advance care plan.
He makes me promise I will look after him,
the way I looked after his daughter.

We make a pact, he signs the paperwork, we agree it is not yet his time,
and we enjoy regular visits and chats.

Bit by bit, his body begins to fail and slow him down, but his mind is as sharp as a tack and he hears everything. He knows he is getting closer to the end of his life, and he is tired. Walking becomes a struggle. Eating is difficult. He has lost his sense of taste, and appetite.

The chest pain grips him in the middle of the night.
It is fleeting, but unbearable.
He is terrified of a repeat episode and asks if I can stop it.
When it returns the next night, he uses the spray, which takes the pain away, but the experience leaves him exhuasted.

His nurses call me the next morning, worried that he is “refusing” to take his regular medicines, and is struggling to get to the bathroom.

We sit side by side, and I hold his hand as he tells me the time has come.
The things that gave him pleasure no longer bring a smile to his face.
The struggle is too great.
The medicines are an unwanted burden.
“What’s the point?” he asks.

I tell him he is control, and can stop whenever he wants to.

His biggest fear is the pain, and that he will be aware of people watching him die. After sharing his home, his heart, his love, he wants the end to be private and dignified.
It is time for me to deliver on my promise.

I reassure him I will do my best to keep him comfortable.
I talk with his doctor and geratrician, both respect his wishes to gently head down this final path in life.
His only wish is that it be a short journey.
I tell him that only he and his body can determine the length of the path.

After years of sitting in his chair in the sun he stays in bed.
This, above everything else, tells me he is truly ready.
He is comfortable, awake, and able to talk with each of his grandchildren and loving family members.

He begins to dream, and takes them with him to the old country.
They appear on the path to Galle Fort, and walk beside him.
His wife is waiting patiently at the top of the hill for him to join her.

One more promise to be kept.
A date for an evening glass of whisky with his nephew. One last happy hour.
After being in bed for six days, he is determined to drink the whisky while sitting in his chair. He demands a wash, fresh pyjamas for the occassion, and walks across the room.

He gives instructions on how he likes his whisky.
Two cubes of ice and a generous nip.
He lifts the glass to his lips.
I watch his hand and the glass shake with each sip.
We reminisce, look at photos, enjoy his company.

The whisky finished, he is ready to go back to bed.
It is the last time he will sit in his chair, or walk.
I see him every day, and make sure he is comfortable.
He opens his eyes when I gently kiss him on top of the head for the last time, and tell him how much I love him.

As the sun starts to set he draws his last breath, exhales, and is gone.
A piece of my heart goes with him.