I have a good 29 years left to live. If I’m lucky. I will be 75 years old then. After that, it doesn’t matter much to me if I kicked the bucket.
What I don’t want is to live long enough for someone to spoon-feed me. Or wash me. Or some stranger with breath to shout in my remaining good ear, “It’s me, Kim, your son!” I want to go when I’m still not too bowed, still dignified when nobody is addressing me as a child.
