Of course, it’s now obvious why he was so angry that day. People don’t move into hospice to live but to die. And that half an egg sandwich I ended up making him–that sandwich was the last meal he ate in our Haight-Ashbury apartment, our one true home.
Alysia Abbott, Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father
aids, chronic-illness, death, dying, end-of-life, family, grief, hiv, home, hospice, love