Before a spell as a marine commando in his younger days the old man was an apprentice boat builder. But now the hospital was refusing his requests for a tot of rum.
"Mr Cameron, please will you tell your father he can't have alcohol in here?" the doctor implored. The old boy must have thought he'd ended up in a hospice or some sort of palliative care. Ross had a word with him. A crestfallen silence followed.
Visiting time now over, Ross promised to come again tomorrow. The old man gave a knowing stare at his only remaining son.
"Take care of yourself," he said. These were the final words Ross heard from him.
By the following day his dad had slipped from consciousness. A nurse suggested Ross just sit with him. Listening to the death rattle, he was reminded of the previous year with his older brother.
A spotty youth broke Ross's reverie, taking lunch orders around the wards. "He won't want lunch. In fact, I doubt he'll see out the rest of the day," Ross told him.
Not quite understanding, the junior orderly tried again. "Maybe just a sandwich then?"
Ross almost laughed. "No, nothing." The boy moved on with his round, oblivious.
Ross stood next to his father to stroke his brow and whisper comfort. The rattle faded, almost petering out. Just go if you want to, Dad. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.
As if by miracle, his father at that moment expelled two short breaths and gave up the ghost. He sat awhile.
"He's gone," Ross told a wide-eyed nurse as he left. She scurried across to his dead father's bedside.
Lunchtime, months later, his mobile rang. "Mr Cameron, this is the hospital calling about your father's death."
"Yes?"
"Just to say you're in the clear."
"Thank you."
Hungry now, he went to the kitchen to make a sandwich.
Psalm 23:4 - KJV