Our great friend Glenn died a few weeks ago. He was a well-loved man, who taught tennis, smoked cigars, and read EVERYTHING with the same relish. He was my favorite ex-pat. He'd been in the U.S. for 30 years. He still sounded like a Brit (probably not to other Brits though.) We loved him and now miss him terribly.

I had a hard time writing about Glenn when he died. I got to see him a few days before he went.

I stopped going to visit with groups of friends months before. I had decided to only visit him one-on-one. Since he couldn't speak well, I found that if we visited in pairs or groups, we'd visit over him instead of with him. By going alone, I knew he couldn't speak but I could just hold his hand and give him a drink when he wanted it.

Jack went to see him the Saturday before he died. He came home and said that if I wanted to see Glenn again, I'd better go soon. Jack felt that Glenn would only be around for another month or so. So, I went and saw him Sunday, next day.

Glenn asked me to "end it," in his raspy, barely audible gasps. I told him I couldn't but that he wouldn't have to wait long. I told him he didn't have to be responsible for anything and that even the tennis match on the television didn't need his attention.

When I left I asked the nurses and attendants to not encourage him to hold on. You see while I was in with him, one of the nurses came in and kept saying, "Don't give up. Hold on. Fight the good fight." I felt that that must be the way the staff deals with all this death in the hospice. But, it was not what my friend needed. He needed to be released from his bodily obligation. By Tuesday he was gone.

I still miss him so much.