It was something I said I'd never do. I had told even my mother that it was a stupid idea. Then, she had gone and done it herself, out of the curiosity that kills. I don't know what her dream was like and I hope to never know, but you can be certain that her demise came by car accident, because she never stepped foot in another car for the rest of her life... Consequentially, when she did die, at age eighty-seven, it was because of a car that rammed into the ambulance taking her to the hospital after a heart attack.

Now, though, I’ve been diagnosed with this illness and I can’t help wonder if that’s what will kill me. I am getting up there in years and the idea of the brutal treatment overwhelms me. What’s the use of that’s how I’m destined to die? I hold the bottle in my hand, thinking about the fear my mother lived with her whole life. Could I do it? Should I?