Last week I've met a guy, not much older than me, who has lung cancer. When the news turned out, two things have been decided by him: he doesn't want to know how much time does he have and he wants to die in deluded closeness to happiness. He didn't go back to the doctors for an outspoken date, and he started partying heavily, grabbing all the joys (artificial, liquid or any other type) that he can find.
Damn, I use this "he" word a lot. But I don't want to give him any stupid alliterative nicknames.
Anyways, lung cancer is the very same disease that took my granddad away about a month earlier. Thanks to Herr Alzheimer, he didn't have a choice: death found him strapped into a bed, with 24/7 surveillance. That's the cruelest form of bad luck.
If anything similar happens to me, twisting out some famous "last words" from David Tennant: I don't want to go without putting a mark here and there, creating something worthy to left behind. Pulling a Burgess is the road I'll take.
If I will have the chance.
