The nursing home didn’t make it a priority for the residents to prepare to die with dignity and peace. Many of the residents were already dead, or at least they weren’t really living. Too often I found them sitting in their urine or feces, isolated in their dim rooms with food crusted on their clothes and faces. Women would sit staring out a window for hours at a time in a trance of loneliness. Men would be just as still, often in the dark, with stubble and dandruff and threadbare clothes. Theirs was a still life, an empty and forgotten life. So much for transformation. For all that they had
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