Sometime in the summer of 2017 I wrote in my journal, Jesus fucking Christ, please save me. I was trapped in hell, and I could see no way out. Our beautiful, sunny, two-bedroom penthouse apartment in the East Village which I had rented for Rayya to make her happy in the last months of her life had become a dungeon of misery, danger, degradation, drugs.
"For example, we proposed to keep our benefits the same as they are now. We just wanted them protected under a contract," Tobin said. "[Hospice East Bay] said no, they want the right to make them worse. And so, that's been really shocking and disappointing."