About two-and-a-half years ago, I was told I have inoperable, stage-three lung cancer. At the time I was advised that patients like me usually last about two years, so I’ve already outlived my prognosis. During this time, I’ve tried not to focus all my attention on the disease that’s going to end my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not by nature a very upbeat kind of guy. But I refuse to live what’s left of my life in my grave.

Like other people, I wondered, often, what I would do if I got a death sentence? Now, I’m learning. And make no mistake, that’s what this is. The doctors can keep me alive for awhile and except for the tiredness and the nausea from chomotherapy my life isn’t bad, yet. But, hey, it’s coming to an end. And it’s ending no matter how much I rely on the good-old American belief that all problems can be solved with a can-do attitude and a cheery outlook and a touch of Yankee know how. If that was all it took to survive cancer, chemotherapy centers and radiation centers and cancer wards could be used to house the homeless. No, this is a reality I can’t be outrun. Short of an honest to God miracle, terminal cancer is final. But I refuse to think about that. I refuse because I believe the way I die is more important than my death. Believe me, I’m frightened sometimes, and angry, and worried about what will happen to my wife, or all the other things you might imagine, but I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to let the cancer beat me until I can just fight no more. If I feel strong enough or healthy enough to, heaven help me, make love with my wife or maybe go sailing one last time or lose myself in Pavarotti’s "Nessun Dorma" a few more times or get to watch another season of Notre Dame football, I want to be able to enjoy it.

I’m really not brave. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, in the dark, and I can’t breathe from the sudden fear. I’m afraid that when I’m dying I’ll turn into a weeping mass of pleading humanity. I’ve been promised that I’ll get pain-killers and that’ll be kind of nice, I think. I like the idea of taking morphine without having to worry about becoming addicted…hell, that’ll be off the table, won’t it?

It helps that I know just how blessed I am. I'm a sober alcoholic, sober for a little more than 13 years. I was what's known as a low-bottom alky: one of those guys you see lurking under bridges or in alleys, the kind of guy who cleaned the gin-mill toilet for a couple of beers and who followed his thirst to places I never thought I'd end up. Now I'm sober and though I'm deadly sick I'm able to treasure every day.

I wish I could live longer. But I can't. And then I remember what I thought when my oncologist looked over the top of his glasses and told me I had terminal cancer. I remember thinking, Man, I’ve had a hell of a ride. A lot of pain, but it was worth it.