Wilf was a sweet 60-year-old man suffering from Huntington’s chorea.

I visited Wilf every week. I took him (and his wheelchair, which folded into the trunk of my little car) wherever he wanted to go…to the mall…to the park…to visit friends…. He always insisted I join in any fun or conversations with his friends.

Sometimes we sat in his room and looked through his photo albums—he tried so hard to communicate the joys and tears of his life. And I loved hearing his stories, as best he could share them. Sometimes, when he was awfully tired, he insisted I read him any cards and letters he received.

And sometimes I met him in the “entertainment” room after lunch had been served. That’s where he was that day in September when my son, who wasn’t even six weeks old, visited Wilf along with my two-year-old daughter and me.

As Wilf sat in his wheelchair, I gently laid my son in his lap. With the greatest of care and love, Wilf “held” him. Residents of the home wandered past and watched us. Many came up to us and congratulated Wilf on his adorable grandson. He never corrected any of them—you see, we weren’t related to Wilf.

But as Wilf held his “grandson” he told me that when he was dying he would remember holding this little boy in this way. And he told me how special the experience was for him.

I guess he knew then that he didn’t have long to live and it filled him with great love to be holding a new life.

Wilf took his life two months later. I never saw it coming. Neither did any of the other Hospice workers or staff at the home. We were all stunned. Sure, we all had discussed death and the afterlife with him as his condition declined—but he had never talked of suicide.

He had never acted as if it was a thought that had passed through his mind!

For a long time I thought I should have known (that day in the entertainment room) that something was amiss.

To be honest, that time had been magical. I had been oblivious to the underlying message. (But I kept asking myself, “How could all of us in his life have missed our little messages?”)

Today I realize Wilf had found comfort that day. (He had already made a decision and nobody was going to stop him.) So he had cherished the time he had left.

And I also recognize that my son, at such a tender age, had touched the soul of another.

I miss you Wilf!

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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