I spent the last Sunday of my father’s life sitting by his bed on the hospice unit in a small Connecticut hospital. He was dying of pneumonia, once called “the old man’s friend.” There was a nondenominational chapel down the hall, and a sheet cake in the kitchen. His hand was warm. Reassured by the quiet presence of the hospice nurses and feeling the mysterious quickening of life through his veins, I gave over to being his daughter and letting him be my father one last time.
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