Hospice

His left eye was twitching. He was sure it meant a brain tumor. He shouldn’t have given up his health insurance. He shouldn’t have quit his job. He would wait to get it checked out. It would be too late. He would receive sub-standard care. The doctors would be indifferent. He would go bankrupt. He would be ruined.

He’d die in some dingy government-funded hospice. The nurses would take turns sexually-assaulting him while he was knocked out on morphine, but he’d be vaguely aware, he’d know. A ring of perverted nurses assaulting a helpless dying man. People are fucking sick.  

Did he believe in God? He’d have to figure that out. His mother would be there, praying for him. He’d probably ask for a priest. Why take any chances? Maybe he should be more brave. Either he believed or he didn’t. Take a stand. Be a man. Could he ask his mother to tell the nurses to stop assaulting him? She would think he’d lost his mind. 

What would his final moments be like? Would he be in pain? Would he fade away in a drugged daze? Would he see a tunnel and a bright light, an angel beckoning? Would his soul float above his body and fly away? Would there be darkness, nothingness? Would the devil be waiting for him, leaning on his trident and grinning, welcoming lost souls? He had to figure these things out. This twitching, it was making him insane. How many months did he have? Give it to me straight, doc. Let me get my affairs in order. Say my goodbyes. He was dying, he knew it. Dying, dying, dying. He fell asleep.