# 0025
Aunty K stopped breathing at about 12am. The doctors pronounced her dead at about 12:25am, shortly after a horizontal print out front the ECG. We were alerted by the hospital of a dropping blood pressure at about 10:40pm. We arrived at the hospital at about 11:15pm. K was still breathing, at a rather excited pace, and with every breath a gentle grunt, perhaps in attempt to communicate her awareness toward us. Her eyes did not blink. Her skin had a yellow tint. I tried to feel her pulse, but could not feel any. At this point of time T had not arrived. T arrived at about 11:45pm. Shortly after T's arrival, K's breaths became shallow, less frequent, from about 6 seconds per breath, to 10 seconds, and eventually stopping completely, almost as if she had been waiting for T to arrive, to say her final goodbye, before passing on. In the midst of the visitors were D's wife, and two of his close friends, both I had seen before since secondary school days. In many ways I envied his friendships, for I would never have 
considered having a true friend whom I could relate with. But then again his friendships could have been the very substitute of what I would consider strong familial relationships, something perhaps he never had. However deep down within I had a greater grief, one deeper than K's death, for the ones who loved her and stood by her side during her final breath's, having been reminded of the stark reality of death and overcome by the emotions of grief, I sincerely wonder what goes through their minds as they stand there and watch her in her helpless state, of how and when their turn would come.