‘You know he’s going home to die?” I was at St Mary’s hospital in Paddington, London, in 2004, collecting my boyfriend, Miguel. The words were spoken gently by his lovely Scottish ex-boyfriend, Gordon, as if he was checking to make sure I understood.
Did I know that Miguel was going home to die? Not really. He had been deteriorating for more than a year from HIV, but until now had remained independent. Surely he would get back to normal? Gordon’s question pierced my denial, but weirdly I still felt hopeful that Miguel would make it.
