As I've noted before, after a few decades of working in palliative care terminal pain control, when in my fifties, I received 2 poor prognoses regarding my life expectancy, one cardiac, one cancer, and so, instead of accepting this, and being a patient, I took off around the world. I ran away. I've never liked hospitals. I spent a lot of money on having fun and not facing up to my own physical reality. I lived in places and did things and met people, none of which I ever would have done without the impetus of life being, for me, quite short. I lived a life far outside and beyond my expectations from being a working class Australian boy of my generation. I came home a decade later to find that I was still alive, as I am today. When working in palliative care as nurse, consultant, adviser and hospice creator I never met one patient in all those decades who ever, ever, didn't die of their illness based upon the usual disease trajectories... except me. I recall I was a nurse consultant in palliative care for awhile looking after folk with a higher cancer count than I had. I expect my continuing survival isn't due to any miracle but rather to the atrocious diagnostic skills of many cardiac and cancer specialists, and to the fact that I have always refused all treatments and still do. One aspirin a day is good. Anyway, this week, at 64 years old, I worked 5 shifts as a clinical nurse in the Ice Addiction Unit, and now have 3 days off. What am I going to do with the days? I think I will take one aspirin and sleep through the first 2 of them, because, wow, I do get tired these days.