The author of this book, about the death of her son from AIDS, is not using her real name, or his, but her agony is genuine. As her son's illness approached its final ravaging stage, his body beginning to shred, it became clear that he didn't want to be moved from the apartment he loved. He wished instead to stay among possessions, in his own bed, rather than be transported to the vagaries of an impersonal hospital room. The young man was not so fortunate as to have all the professional support he needed, but he had his mother-beside him, holding him, when he stopped breathing.