A lovely tribute to a beloved cousin as shared in the latest Writing Through Grief workshop . . .

Yesterday I lost my cousin Jeff. He was only 57. He left behind no one but my dad, a couple of my siblings and myself. There will be no fanfare, no obituary, funeral or flowers. But there will be memories of how his life intertwined with mine.

He and I were born a mere 26 days apart and he was my only cousin remotely close to my age. Given away by his birth parents then given up on by his adoptive parents he was tossed into the system and eventually ended up on the streets, before he could even shave. My parents tried to get custody when he was 14 but were denied.

Because our mothers were sisters and lived near each other, the two of us spent countless hours together growing up. I have so many vivid memories as a kid of his parents fighting. Jeff and I, anxious to get away from the screaming, would leave the house and get in all sorts of trouble. We spent hours outdoors digging up bugs, tormenting insects, catching toads or rescuing birds. Once we stood at the top of the stairs and threw peas down to the basement one by one. I was no more than six or seven yet was fully aware that I would go home to my peaceful, loving home and leave my cousin in his hell. There was guilt.

When his parents divorced neither parent wanted him, so into foster care Jeff went. I visited him several times and recall one place out in the middle of the desert. He introduced me to his hawk who was injured and I watched him feed the bird of prey with such care. My love of birds was born then.

His foster parents would not feed him so he was forced to hunt his own food. I was too naive to process such cruelty. That day he taught me how to hunt, kill, skin and cook rabbits, snake and a chicken. What I really learned was how incredibly unfair life was. Why did I have two parents who loved me and provided a cooked meal every night, yet my cousin was rejected repeatedly by multiple sets of parents and had to kill his own dinner. We weren't even teenagers yet.

By the time we were teenagers I was involved with friends, dating, competitive dance and high school. Jeff was living on the streets trying to survive. Our lives could not have been more different and the chasm between us grew larger. I recall taking him on a trip to lake Powell where he told me he'd like to be the kind of guy who could date my friends. But we both knew that would never happen. And I wondered why.

For the next few decades the only time we would hear or see from Jeff was when he was in dire need of money. He became a victim of drugs and endured the consequences of using them. No doubt his life was beyond lonely and hard.

After many rough years of serving prison time and not being able to find a job or a home his mother died. Finally my parents could step in and help, something they'd tried to do his whole life but were prevented from by my unwell aunt. If she couldn't give him a decent home, no one could. She was messed up, Jeff paid the price.

He moved into my parent's basement where he lived for 10 years. There he got sober, worked and slept and slept. My parents loved him, believed in him and gave him a chance.

My encounters with him then were often awkward. There was guilt when I looked at him living in my former bedroom, covered in peeling pink and green floral wallpaper, while I lived in my mansion with my husband and kids, things he'd never had. That guilt fueled my need to say yes, no matter how outlandish his demand. I was keenly aware I had been handed up a perfect life compared to the empty, rotten one served him. I was also aware I had moved on with my life, leaving him behind and not giving it a second thought.

Jeff would keep to himself during the frequent, large family gatherings at my parents home. He'd grab his huge plate of food and race back to the safety of his room. Yet every now and then he'd appear wanting to make a speech in honor of his uncle Gary and aunt Juanita, and give thanks for all they did for him. That was one of Jeff’s greatest strengths, in spite of having nothing, he was always grateful. And that gratitude lead to giving.

Although he had next to nothing he gave constantly to those in greater need than himself. He'd offer homeless friends his bed, or the floor or couch, or just the use of my parents address so they could receive mail. At Thanksgiving he would take plates heaped with food and distribute them among the homeless downtown. Whenever we gave to him, he'd give to others.

The death of my mother rocked his world and his security. She was the only consistent kindness he'd ever known, and he knew his time living there would eventually come to an end. Determined to prove himself worthy of being roommates with "Uncle Gary" and caring for him, he tried even harder to do what was right, but struggled mightily.

The two of them got a good rhythm going and did well for a few years, both being fast food junkies and history buffs, but then my dad got older and had to be moved.

I try to imagine how frightening it must've been to once again be kicked to the curb and lose the only dad figure he'd ever had. Even though my siblings and I set him up with a car, an apartment, a job and cash, it had to feel like another abandonment because within 24 hours he’d regressed to his old ways of crime and disappeared. We were devastated.

Eight months later I got a call from the hospital. Jeff had been found frozen near death in his car. Miraculously they had revived him but he was left a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down. For two weeks he had been a John Doe, a nobody with no one until a diligent nurse tracked me down.

My siblings and I raced to his side, where he admitted he had told the hospital he had no family, so great was his shame with what he'd done. We forgave, loved, doted, nursed and supported until Covid kicked us out.

The next 13 months were nothing but torture for Jeff. So many surgeries, intubations, infections, open wounds, pain, transfers, humiliating situations and all of this without any visitors due to the virus.

I learned quickly that he was treated better in each place he went whether hospital, acute care or nursing home, if I called in often and made it clear he had a family on the outside who loved him and had his back. Some places didn't get the message right away and his treatment was appalling. He would beg to come live with us, but how was I to care for a quadriplegic? It haunts me I could not.

His only joy was his weekly, sometimes daily phone calls begging for hamburgers, Mexican food or a homemade pie. If I couldn't pick up the phone, no worries he'd call every minute until I did. He was that relentless.

Due to Covid I'd have his food delivered and then not being able to feed himself, he relied on compassionate nurses to spoon feed him. How he loved his food!

Again Jeff was loud, impatient and demanding, yet after being told by the nursing home that he had to shape up or ship out he changed. The past few months his phone calls were kinder, gentler, less urgent. He was always grateful and not once did he end a phone call without letting me know he loved me. Those words came easy to Jeff.

When my dad got Covid Jeff called daily, worried about his uncle Gary dying. For someone who was confined to a bed the rest of his life and could do absolutely nothing on his own, he still thought of others.

Ten days before his death, he was admitted to the hospital again with an obstructed bowel. During his last week on earth he endured three surgeries, being put on and off the vent twice and even coded for a full 10 minutes only to be revived again. Then, after being told he was stable, he died without warning while my sister held his hand.

When he almost died in his car he had a near death experience and was told it was not yet his time. The sentinel angels would not open their wings for him. He was told he still had to fight. And fight he did. He fought courageously long and hard to the very last day. I won't ever understand why after the painful life he already endured, he was subjected to yet another year of anguish.

So much to ponder as to why some lives measured in worldly currency have so much value and others barely any.

Jeff never stood a chance. I believe we can make anything with what we are given, but Jeff was given nothing from the get go, a complete victim of his circumstances, nothing from nothing. I'm not sure I'll ever understand or accept the reasoning as to why that was.

I'm so grateful our family was able to show Jeff a little of the lot of love he deserved but was denied by so many. I'm grateful he knew we had his back and loved him. I'm beyond grateful he did not die alone and is now in the light he sought and in the loving arms of my own sweet mother.

You will be missed Jeff. You had a profound effect on my life. I'm so relieved you are now free from pain and can roam and soar like your rescued hawk of our youth. I know the angels lifted their wings this time. I love you Jeff.

Becky has always loved to write, and although never published, has earned several awards. She put her pen down for over two decades to be a mother and grandmother to dozens of kids and care for several family members.

A jack of all trades but master of none, she has dabbled in medicine, dance, insurance, cosmetology, real estate, interior design and architecture. An avid volunteer, she has donated her time to schools, community events and her church. She served on the Foster Care Citizen Review board and co-ran the largest nativity exhibit in the nation for nine years.

She daydreams of escaping to a chalet in the Swiss Alps, where she lived as a youth, and do nothing but write personal essays and children’s books.