What does my father’s fabric store and hospice have in common? They are both a dying business.
I was born in the 1970s and raised in the aisles of a fabric store — my childhood steeped in bolts of cloth, thimbles, spools of thread, and the rich textures of community. My father owned a small shop tucked in the corner of a shopping plaza in Levittown, NY. On the other end of that plaza sat the Tri-County Flea Market — our own version of Emerald City, especially if you had a thing for a good bargain or a little glitter or a sticker for your collection.
The fabric store was more than just retail. It was immersive. Patterns and textiles rotated with the seasons. The window displays were lovingly curated installations. Holiday time brought cookies from employees who felt more like family. Customers — mostly women and children — came seeking fabric for dresses, curtains, Halloween costumes. We made things back then. We created.
Like many kids of that era, I looked forward to Home Economics class. My older sisters had baked brownies and sewn buttons in school. I couldn’t wait. But by the time I got there, it had changed. Home Ec had become “Home and Careers” — more textbooks, less hands-on. “Shop” class turned into “Technology.” Practical, tactile education was fading, and with it, the fabric of a slower, more hands-on American life.
At the same time, our culture shifted. Clothes were no longer made at home; they were imported, cheap, and disposable. People stopped sewing. Malls grew. Fabric stores closed. Rents went up. The business model no longer worked. My father — ever resilient — pivoted, diversified, and kept our family afloat. But he often said, “The fabric business is a dying business.”
Years later, I would find myself in another “dying business” — hospice care.
This time, the phrase is literal.
Make no mistake: hospice is vital. It provides compassionate care at the end of life. I have endless gratitude for the nurses, social workers, aides, and clinicians who show up every day with presence and grace. But we need to be honest — hospice is not just a service. It is a business. And business is booming… in ways that are sometimes hard to look at.
I’ve spent over 20 years in healthcare. I’ve seen incredible moments of dignity and healing. But I’ve also seen companies fight over dying patients. I’ve seen sales reps argue over referrals like they were leads for luxury condos. Because every patient is money. Every death is a transaction.
And now, as society rethinks longevity, aging, and quality of life, we have to ask: What does the business of dying look like? Who owns it? Who profits from it? And what happens when that model — like the fabric store — no longer fits?
There is hope. I deeply admire the growing movement of death doulas, people who are bringing consciousness, ritual, and humanity back to the dying process. They’re helping families and individuals write their own endings with intention.
But we must remain vigilant. As healthcare corporations grow larger, and as end-of-life care gets commodified, we risk losing the personal, the meaningful, and the ethical. Hospice — as we know it — may become yet another dying business.
So be mindful. Plan ahead. Ask questions. Advocate for your loved ones. And recognize that, just like fabric, the threads of our lives deserve to be handled with care — even at the very end.
