Thrills, pills and a headscarf

The End.  This is it now and I find myself slightly lost in how to write about the end. I've done the introduction and taken you through a twisting and turning plot; and I know the story ends because all of ours do ultimately, but how does one write that final chapter? How does one process that it is the final chapter?  I got told a couple of weeks ago. In fact, I got told I may only have a couple of weeks to live and as usual I've stubbornly disproven that theory. I'm no fool though, I understand my life is now being measured in weeks; and not necessarily that many of them. In fairness I almost died (I'm not exaggerating) about two months ago, so in a weird way I'm still one up. I have a very serious infection in my liver which sent me into septic shock; the intensive care unit; and a very blunt conversation of all the things that could happen that they wouldn't resuscitate me from. I have never been so terrified in my life and I experienced a new level of pain...

A couple of weeks ago I hit a point I had hoped I wouldn't. I've had a lot of treatment since diagnosis and we've always, in the background, known immunotherapy exists. We've chatted about it a few times and always found some other option. It has remained the card up the sleeve and that's how I liked it. Until two weeks ago. That's when the world went for another spin and a spectacular crash for me. I went for my scan result and was informed the chemotherapy isn't working. Sure, the two smaller spots are shrinking but the big bugger (Stephen Shitbag) who's wedged himself at the back of my liver and is trying to buddy up with blood vessels and stuff, he's not having any of this chemo crap. While the rest of my body is busy falling apart from it, he's thriving and has grown two centimetres since the last scan. The shitbag. Well, we can't be having that. Me getting sicker from something that's supposed to be killing him. So chemo is off ...