Remembering Seán It just doesn't feel real. I mean sure, I knew he was going to die just not so... soon. He shouldn't have died either: only just turned 67. Still so many years left to live, all taken by an illness only discovered 4 months before his death. 67 years taken by 4 months. It hurts, but I'm going to write this. I'm going to remember. I'm going to make sure others do too. My great uncle Seán will not be forgotten, and neither will the illness that destroyed his life. When I was a baby my parents would call him the baby whisperer. I don't personally remember: I was too young to think ‘oh, that's a good one' and lock the memory away for later years. But my parents remember, and they tell me. They unlock the safe the memory's stored in, move it to pride of place, front of their minds. They called him the baby whisperer because, when I was crying, he was one of the few people who could stop the tears. He'd pick me up, rest my head on his shoulder, and I would calm down. My parents used to say he had a magic shoulder. But now, when the tears stream down my cheeks, where is my baby whisperer? Where is his magic shoulder, his kind smile? This time he cannot stop the tears, because this time I weep for him.