10th July 2016

As I mentioned in my series of dying thoughts post, I have decided to put a few of my dysfunctional entries online, as separate posts. They'll all be about my thoughts on dying so, you know, a little depressing. I was aiming to get them all up within a week. Best intentions, eh?

I must confess I don't really like this entry. It is too 'woe is me'. Other than the last paragraph, I don't really feel like this anymore. This entry was written in hospital, when I was rather emotional and in an awful lot of pain. I am sorry it is so cheesy.  

10^th July 2016

Better people than I have died. Younger people too. Better younger people. There was a teenager in the UK and when he became terminal he began a blog championing socialist ideas. The entire time he knew he was dying, yet he was trying to improve the world. I’m fifteen years older and I haven’t even started. And I like his writing more than my own.

I have a couple of regrets. The first is not really up to me. I regret that I cannot live longer, watch my husband age and flourish, see my sister get married [I did actually get to do this], enjoy future nieces and nephews. That is all out of my control though. These things aren’t going to happen so I ought not to pine about them. My twenties have been good to me. I have enjoyed them. My husband, the time I have had with him; well it is a good thing we married young. Many people don’t get to experience what I have. I am aware of this and I do appreciate my own life. Even now. Especially now.

The second regret is something I had a bit more say in. I regret that I haven’t helped the world. Since I was a little girl, I wanted to save the world. My plans were grandiose, unachievable, some may say. As I got older, everything I experienced I justified as research for how I could make the best impact. And, of course, I was just about to start my master plan, even if the plan lacked specific details. Yes, I am certain that I was just about to start. But I never did start. I came into this world, mucked around for thirty-one years, and will leave without making the slightest social mark. One could say that my life was wasted.

I don’t know how many of these thoughts are actually caused by my narcissistic personality. Or maybe it is a generation Y thing. I know that when I was initially diagnosed and there was minimal chance of dying, I got a little egotistical about making myself great, famous, a champion for humanity. And for animals too. So maybe, this regret of not saving the world just stems from my ego. For anyone interested, my master plan was to volunteer twenty hours a week (I hadn’t chosen a specific organisation) whilst writing a novel as socially poignant as Steinbeck. I had even drafted a plot pyramid. But the novel will never be written, and was probably rubbish anyhow.

But I think my advice to those out there contemplating the epic novel, the overseas adventure, the big job move; is just do it. I know it isn’t original advice. Nike got there first. But seriously, we shouldn’t let life get us. What are we waiting for? Most of the time we have nothing to lose.