Today, I found out my cousin, Pat, died. She didn’t just recently die, but on November 27. I suppose that’s recent. Her husband just notified me by email. I wish he had told me earlier, but, of course, there would have been nothing I could have done. She didn’t want a funeral or a memorial service, just wanted to be cremated. “I have her ashes here with me, and will keep them with me as long as I am alive,” her husband wrote.
I’m so sad. Pat was a distant cousin. We had discovered each other through genealogy, otherwise we wouldn’t have known the other existed. If I remember correctly, we were sixth cousins. She lived outside of Ottawa, so I didn’t see her a lot, but we emailed often and talked on the telephone on occasion. Despite only knowing her for a few years, she and her husband had been to Nova Scotia and stayed with us on several occasions; we had stayed at their house once when travelling through Ontario to visit my mother.
Pat, who was my age, fought a courageous battle over the past year. I read between the lines of emails and heard unspoken words in telephone calls. Despite not knowing every detail nor everything she went through, I feared the end wouldn’t be a happy one. Cancer is like that, more often than not, I think. It’s a horrid, foul disease.
My parents had no siblings, so I had no first cousins, and our MacKenzie family was small. I know; I researched my MacKenzie family for over ten years. We have few MacKenzie relatives; almost no cousins to speak of, none really that my siblings and I have. I do have two cherished second cousins, but neither are MacKenzies, one of whom was just diagnosed with cancer a couple of months ago. Her fight has begun, but the doctors say it is “curable.” I pray it is. I don’t want to lose any more cousins, nor any good friends, for my few cousins are more than relatives—they are friends.
RIP Pat MacKenzie
I will miss you!