John don't want to die

John had no intentions of dying, but the prospect of it, and the possibility of it was certainly laden with probability at the moment.
He was supposed to have written some letters, or possible goodbye notes in truth. He could have written a little anecdote of his musings on life, or some bits of advice he picked up in his life.
He looked down on his bed, it was littered with crumpled paper and a little notebook full of crossed out lines. He felt again the urge to scream loud towards the world and throw the god damn notebook out the window. But he could not scream, even if it wasn't for the tube in his throat, he saw little point. And he doubted he could do much with the notebook, as even writing was a bit tiresome. He lifted his hand and laid it back down on the notebook in a precise and careful movement, before crumpling the top paper one finger at a time. He then brushed it down beside his legs and picked up his pen.

He released it again immediately. A pain in his chest made him heave for breath, and it was gone again. Not measurable at this level of pain medication at least. The pains in his chest had gotten worse and the new prognosis was worse then first anticipated. It was cancer. In a more specific term in was lung cancer, and this had always baffled him to some degree. The revulsion and lack of compassion in regards to lung cancer was equally baffling. The general demeanour treated him like he deserved it or something. He had never smoked in his life. He found it repulsive now as he did then, and had a problem with friends who did. He could not applaud such lack of willpower no matter the excuses. Sure quitting was hard, he got that, but what irked him was the fact that they had started it in the first place. He sighed, or at least took a good intake of air. Pain shot through him again.

Too quick, it all got worse too quick, he felt his body hated him. It felt like ages ago that he had gone to the doctor, yet again for his chest pains, and had ended up in this deathbed. One of his lungs was long gone, and the other was in danger. and some complications off spread to other places was in there too. All in all it was not a good percentage that was given him for this operation. They gave him an option of trying to fix it and possibly die, or to live for months, maybe years and die guaranteed.

John mused at this. Why had he agreed to this in the first place? Maybe it was because it was a choice. He could die trying now, or he could die later in much pain and lack of dignity. The life in constant deterioration was what suited him least. No! Dying was what suited him least, but he had no say in that matter any more. He would die. Well, of course we all die sometime, and we have all been deteriorating since the age of 21, or whatever that number was. John let a small frown curl over his forehead, as he tried to see if it all fitted enough. Did he care any more? Yes, yes he did. He had little intention of dying, but wanting to live every moment. This life seemed much more fun then any of the afterlives he had heard of.

As John got to a conclusion of that he did care, he realized it meant he was not finished, and looked down at the notebook in his lap. He picked up the pen, just as a nurse peeked her head inside and quipped "The doctor will be along in five minutes, to fill you in one last time before we start."
John took a deep breath, and even though it hurt it steadied him none the less. He moved the pen over to the notebook and started writing. To his sister, to her family, to his own family and his father. He was not gone yet, and he would write till they dragged the book from his hands.
He started writing to himself as the doctor came in, and continued for the most of the briefing. Nodding and giving the occasional grunt he tried to sound as if he listened.

A firm and sudden hand was lain across the paper, John looked up at the doctor with a aggravating feeling of annoyance, but saw a sad face with still a smile on it peering down at him. "It will be fine, John, but you need to listen to these last parts," she told him. And as she continued to talk to him, to his face this time, he felt even more hopeful. Her talks of how he should cope after the operation, made a strange sense to him. And when she asked him one last time, as the nurses poured in to take him away, "Are you ready for this?" John nodded with a weak smile creeping from the corner of his mouth, and he lifted his thumb up in acknowledgement.
"I wont die today, I've not finished my writing...." he thought, as he was rolled away.