I knew I was going to die. There was simply no way my condition allowed for anything else. I had been suffering in pain for so long, the idea of death was a relief. Mostly, anyway.
I still held some fear towards death, and there were still things I left unfinished. I knew I was going to die with a few regrets, but what could I do about it? Nothing. That's the nature of regret after all - things you can't change anymore no matter how much you want to.
I held on for longer than I thought I would be able to. But I was only human and, I couldn't run away from the reaper forever.
In the dark hours after midnight, I lay there. Taking even the smallest breath was like waging a war, the suffering was indescribable. But I continued to fight, to struggle, to suffer. Because I couldn't let myself die like this.
My whole life, I had been a quitter. Again and again, I found myself giving up, quitting whenever things got difficult. Sure, I had reasons. Excuses I would justify to myself.
But in the end I knew them for what they were. As I lay here, gasping down my final lungfuls of air, things have never been clearer to me. I had tears in my eyes as I faced my final moments, faced myself.
This final time -the last chance I would ever have- I wanted to prove to myself that I could be something. That I could be strong. That I could face the insurmountable and press forward.
I realized I had stopped breathing.
I drew together every single scrap, every shred, even the smallest, tiniest spark of willpower I had. I mustered my strength. I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks. Blood was running from my nose and the corners of my eyes. I was dying, I was suffering, I felt pain, so much pain.
But I couldn't stop, I had to do it, I had to prove to myself what kind of person I could have become if I didn't give up.
I gave a giant, unstable, shuddering gasp for breath.
And then I died.
It's been one week since my death.