He’s all bone, a T-cell count of zero. What keeps him alive, God only knows, the memory of living, I suppose. Every victory over infection we’ve celebrated, only to be dumped by a wave of despair a week or so later, as the mercury rose again. I know if he goes into hospital he won’t come out, but we said our good-byes long ago. The morphine drips and I whisper sweet everythings to him.
it's the hard facts. it's the inevitable ending. but right now is everything
