I need a long and lingering death to make sure that I have time to have a deathbed conversion.

Coming offstage after a five-minute standing ovation, falling into the arms of my lover, and having the doctor look at me and say, “This is impossible! She looks much too young to go!”

One thing I state as soon as we’re out of the door: ‘Under no circumstances is anyone to say that I lost a battle with cancer. Or that I bore it bravely. I am not fighting, losing, winning or bearing.’ I will not personify the cancer cells inside me in any form. I reject all metaphors of attack or enmity in the midst, and will have nothing whatever to do with any notion of desert, punishment, fairness or unfairness, or any kind of moral causality.

At the right time, and like my father—utterly without fear or pain, at home, with all whom I love. It was his last lesson as a parent to me.

Sundays in Paris with Jeffrey. We go to the Sunday market, make a nice lunch, drink a big bottle of Burgundy, and then take a long delicious nap. Heaven.

Lying on the sofa watching old episodes of Law & Order all day.

That they want to be with me.

I worry that if I don’t challenge myself professionally I’ll lie on the sofa and watch old episodes of Law & Order all day.

Pain. I told Jeffrey that if I have a really bad headache just pull the plug.