My aunt Shirley passed away yesterday after battling lung cancer for four-and-a-half years. When she was first diagnosed, the doctors gave her five years, and she tried every experimental treatment under the sun. Shirley wasn’t actually my aunt (and her husband Brent isn’t actually my uncle). They were just good friends to my parents and were named my godparents at some point in my childhood. Sometime after her diagnosis, she and my uncle Brent stopped visiting as often and we never could figure out why. I guess it’s too late now.
My mom tells me stories of how she and Shirley would take me out with them when I was an infant, and people would always think that I was Shirley’s daughter because of my resemblance to her and not to my mother. Other than that, I have few real memories of spending time with her. We spent more time with Brent and Shirley when I was younger and too young to care about the world of adults.
Still, I see the pain that grips my father and it saddens and frightens me. I have experienced very few painful losses in my life, and for that I am grateful. It is only a matter of time, after all.
Requiescat in pace Shirley Davey
