Day 3

What does a dying person do?

It was the first thing I Googled this morning. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, the light from my phone harsh against the pre-dawn gloom, I stared at the search bar like it had answers to questions I didn’t even know how to ask.

It’s strange, isn’t it? Knowing the clock is ticking and realizing you’ve never even thought about how you’d spend those final minutes, hours, days. Most people don’t think about it until they have to.

And, of course, I never thought I’d have to either.

But there I was, at 5:47 a.m., scrolling through lists on the internet:

“50 Things to Do Before You Die,”

“Bucket List Ideas for Beginners,”

“How to Make the Most of Your Final Days.”

Some of them were laughably wild. Skydiving? Sure, because nothing screams "dying with dignity" like plunging out of a plane and screaming for your life. Swimming with sharks? No, thanks—I’d rather not give them a free lunch. Climbing Mount Everest? The irony of dropping dead halfway up because my tumour couldn’t keep up with my ambition would be too poetic.

Others were endearingly pointless. "Learn to bake bread." Why? So I can die knowing I’ve mastered gluten? "Plant a tree." Cute idea, but I’d prefer not to croak while holding a spade.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Write a letter to your future self."

Who the hell came up with that last one? A letter to your future self? Who’s reading that letter? Ghost-me? Me from beyond the grave clutching the envelope like, "Dear Me, hope the afterlife has free Wi-Fi!"

And then there were the emotional ones—the ones that stopped me mid-scroll.

“Forgive someone.”

“Tell the people you love how much they mean to you.”

“Dance in the rain.”

I didn’t feel like forgiving anyone. I didn’t feel like loving anyone either—not today, anyway. But I did feel like doing something outrageous. Something small and ridiculous, just because I could.

Do you know what’s underrated? Ice cream for breakfast.

At 7 a.m., I found myself sitting on the kitchen counter, eating a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the carton. The chill of the ice cream numbed my teeth, and the sweetness coated my tongue in a way that felt almost defiant, like I was telling the universe, “You can take a lot from me, but you can’t take this.”

Mid-spoonful, Mom walked in.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked, staring at me like I was an alien who’d just abducted her child.

“Possibly,” I said, shoving another spoonful in my mouth. “But if I have, this is how I’m celebrating.”

She sighed, the way only mothers can. “You’ll ruin your appetite for lunch.”

I shrugged. “Good. Lunch is overrated.”

She muttered something under her breath and poured herself a cup of tea. Meanwhile, I just kept eating, daring her—or anyone else—to stop me.

Because, really, why not? Why not start the day with dessert? Why not break the rules just because you can?

Tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe I’ll bake that bread or plant that tree. Or maybe I’ll Google even more ridiculous things dying people do.

But for now, I’m chalking this one up as a win.