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Audrey Hepburn's two sons each had their own lives and responsibilities, so after a brief stay they departed again—but not without urging Henry to call them imdiately if anything changed.
Better to worry about missing sothing than to complain later about a wasted trip.
Their words revealed what everyone already knew in their hearts: the inevitable was near. No one spoke it aloud, but the truth hung unspoken in the air.
One unexpected figure, however, stayed behind—Jean Grey, the "Phoenix."
---
Early in the morning, Henry was out shoveling snow, watching Jean in the yard being sward by five Jack Russell terriers. Or perhaps it was the other way around—she played with them while they attacked with boundless energy. Either way, Henry could only sigh.
These five little fools… do they not realize they could be turned into barbecue in a heartbeat?
"What rude thought are you having?" Jean suddenly asked.
"Nothing! Nothing at all!" Henry answered defensively. Then, rembering who she was, he admitted sheepishly: "I was just thinking—it's really a blessing you decided to stay and help."
That much was true. Caring for a woman ant there were things Henry himself wasn't suited to do. Robert, Audrey's lifelong companion, was there too, but he was already nearing sixty. So tasks were beyond him, and one accident could leave both patient and caregiver injured.
Jean's presence filled that gap perfectly.
Knowing how valuable she was, Phoenix declared with pride: "Back at the school, I handled logistics and dical support all the ti. This is nothing for ."
"Right." Henry didn't argue—he just avoided the topic and finished his work. With the last stroke of his shovel, a snow sculpture stood proudly in the yard: Snoopy, lifelike and cheerful.
Jean was amazed. Yesterday he had shaped the Genie from Aladdin, the day before Garfield. If she had known that before Audrey's relapse Henry had been recreating masterpieces of classical sculpture, she might have thought differently.
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And so the days slipped by, quiet and simple. Henry practiced piano, spent afternoons reading. Most often he read aloud—love stories, as he had once promised Audrey, one a day, drawn from a thousand cultures. He read in the original languages, translated, explained the contexts, polished the words, and recorded them.
Jean found herself enjoying it as much as Audrey. As the actress herself had once said: no matter her age, a woman never tires of love stories.
The final countdown passed in this calm rhythm, until January 19th, when Audrey slipped once again into an unnatural sleep.
Henry called her sons: "The ti may have co. Please hurry back."
The next day Sean Ferrer and Luca Dotti returned to the family ho in Tolochenaz, Switzerland, accompanied by a family doctor and nurse. They set up monitors—heart rate, simple machines.
Everyone had braced themselves for this mont, so the atmosphere wasn't as taut as one might expect. Even so, those who didn't smoke took it up; those who already did smoked far more than usual—nearly cramming whole packs into their mouths at once.
Wine was sipped sparingly. No one wanted to dull themselves in drunkenness.
Most of the ti they stayed close to Audrey's bedside, the television murmuring in the background—the only sound besides the machines' steady beeping.
The news happened to ntion her: in December of the previous year, President George H.W. Bush had awarded her the U.S. Presidential dal of Freedom. Too ill to travel, the dal had been accepted on her behalf and later delivered to Switzerland.
Another story told of Mother Teresa, who, upon hearing of Audrey's condition, had urged nuns worldwide to pray through the night for her miraculous recovery. Prayers rose across the globe—though whether the event was exploited for publicity, none in that room cared to ask.
On the evening of January 20th, the family doctor declared Audrey Hepburn dead and switched off the machines.
Grief filled the room. Robert, her life companion, and her sons Sean and Luca wept.
Henry, Jean, and the household staff stood at the edges. Many sobbed quietly. Employers like her—kind, gentle, empathetic—were rare treasures.
No one was untouched by sorrow. Even Jean, who had known her only days, was swept into its tide.
Only Henry remained composed—eerily so. Yet at such tis, soone steady was needed, so others could surrender fully to their grief.
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On January 24th, Audrey Hepburn's funeral was held in the church at Tolochenaz, officiated by Pastor Maurice Eindiguer—the sa man who had married Audrey and l Ferrer in 1960 and baptized their sons.
Many friends and loved ones attended: her two children, Robert Wolders, her half-brother Ian Quarles van Ufford, her ex-husbands l Ferrer and Andrea Dotti.
Her dearest friend Hubert de Givenchy was of course present, as were senior UNICEF officials. From Hollywood ca French legend Alain Delon, and Roger Moore—the second Jas Bond. Gregory Peck, her co-star in Roman Holiday, sent flowers, as did Elizabeth Taylor and the Dutch royal family.
UNICEF's Agakhan Saludeen Khan delivered the eulogy.
Six n bore the casket—those who had mattered most in her life: Givenchy, l Ferrer, Andrea Dotti, Robert Wolders, Sean Ferrer, and Luca Dotti.
Six n walking in harmony, carrying the sa beloved woman on her final journey—that image said everything. In the end, a life is judged by monts such as this.
Audrey Hepburn was laid to rest in the cetery at Tolochenaz. Her sixty-three years on this earth had co to an end.
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