My Name is John. I am driven. This is not a recent development in my life; it has always been this way. Stories of my childhood are filled with details. Some called it stubborn, some called it impatient, some still do. The fact is, though, that it is a drive that I cannot explain. I make up my mind to do something, and I set it in motion. It becomes an unstoppable force.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I was told that I needed a kidney transplant and, even worse, the likelihood that a kidney transplanted into my body would survive for very long was highly questionable unless I got a pancreas transplant too. In fact, the doctors told me, I was so bad off, that it was improbable that I would live long enough to get the transplant that I needed. The waiting list was about 3 years and I wouldn't be able to last more than around a year, maybe two if I was lucky. This was not in my plan, this dying at the age of 37. There was still a lot on my agenda and I hadn't quite done all of the things I had planned to do.

I went home that day and I got my dog Mischa. We went for a walk and I started to formulate my new plan. I new that I did not want to have my loved ones watch me die. I did not want to have them have to watch me wither away to something that wasn't even a likeness of me. I didn't want to have to face them as a weak man. I was a Marine and afraid of nothing. I could not be seen as weak and losing battles. I did not lose battles. I walked Mischa to a park by my house. We played a little Frisbee and a nice man came over by us and watched her run and catch. We chatted about Mischa and how good she had gotten over the years of tracking down her Frisbee in the air. Mischa tired and I sat down on the bench by the man. He told me that I seemed troubled. What was the problem, he asked? So I told him my story. I told him my plan. Mischa and I were going to say our goodbyes and we were going to get into the car and drive to a beach. I would enter a hospice and we would live out our last days together.

I would make all of the arrangements and when it was over, my friends and family would be notified and they could do with my remains what they wished. I was pretty proud of my plan. It was solid. It spared everyone. The man looked at me and smiled. He asked, "So it is just you and your dog here? No wife or significant other, no kids?" I wasn't married, I told him, but I did have a girlfriend and she had two kids from a previous marriage. That was one of the reasons I was leaving, I told him, so they didn't have to watch me go. "This is your plan," he said "you came up with this?" I did, I told him, and I think it handles the situation well.

He looked at me and he said, "I find it strange that you would come up with this. From what you told me, you aren't one to give up easily. You aren't one to let others watch you die. You aren't a weak man. You are a Marine and you don't lose battles. So I don't understand how you can quit this battle before it has begun."

He stood up and patted Mischa on the head and looked at me and wished me well on the beach. I sat there for a while, stunned for the second time that day, and then got up and walked back to the house. At that moment, I decided I would fight. I was supposed to have a year and I lasted almost 3 until I received my transplant. I carried on with my life and learned to make each day count, learned to be more patient and learned to be less stubborn. I learned that life was a gift, and that I need to give back what I get two fold. It was a strange way for the powers that be to teach me that lesson, but it was also a memorable way, a way that will not let me forget.