When my Grandad was in St Peter & St James' Hospice with terminal cancer in April 04. He was a big, powerful man with shovels for hands. He was only 68. I remember walking into his room in the hospice and seeing him in a really bad state. Pale, skinny, very weak and struggling for breath. He still managed to say hello to my girlfriend (now Wife) and I. That was the last time he spoke to me.
That set me off. Then I found my self crying a day later just before I went to bed. I think since these events things have fallen into perspective for me, so I find it hard to become too emotional as nothing since has gutted me so much.