It was a friendly place, a regular house in a quiet residential neighbourhood.
There were fresh-cut flowers on the dining room table, which was covered with the sort of tablecloth you might have found in your grandmother’s house.
The kitchen was well-stocked with dishes, pots and utensils.
You could cook a meal there.
There were nice curtains on the bedroom windows which overlooked a nice garden outside.
There were no wires or scrubs in this place and no institutional food.
There were nurses. And a doctor made the rounds each day to help with medication and pain management.
It wasn’t fancy.
But it was a nice place in which to spend time and a good place in which to die.
That was in 2003 in England, where dying in a hospice has been mainstream for the past 50 years.
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