I am ready to talk about my death. Is anyone else?

It is October 2012 and my ovarian cancer is back. As we wait to see the consultant I say to my best friend, ‘We are going to Mexico this weekend to get that stuff so I can kill myself. We’ll probably get killed by drug barons.’ My consultant says I have three years. I agree to more chemo and ask: ‘Can I go to Mexico?’ She looks baffled.

It is February 2013 and the consultant is discussing hospices. She is eight months pregnant. I don’t tell her about the Mexican barbiturate in the fridge. I do tell the nice hospice counsellor, though. She goes white.

‘The drug dealers seem to have a good reputation.’

She isn’t reassured.

‘It works on large animals and I’m no bigger than a small donkey or a big dog.’

She tells me that I need to have a psychiatric assessment. Apparently it’s natural to think about dying but not to plan your own death. When I see my GP I tell her that I’m thinking about killing myself and want this recorded to protect my family and friends.

‘Oh, and I also need to be referred to a psychiatrist who’ll say I’m sane, or I won’t get therapy.’

‘What do you think of that?’ she asks.

‘Ridiculous.’

The GP calls a psychiatrist and she says it’s ridiculous. Now that I’m officially not mad the counsellor will see me again, but only with her supervisor, who tells me that in 15 years at the hospice she has never encountered someone with a plan before.

How can you talk about a good life without talking about a good death? I get the feeling that the hospice isn’t the best place to talk about dying.

It is June 2013 and my friend suggests we go to a Death Café.