Twelve years ago, I was given five years to live. They said; “Tim, you have an incurable cancer and we will see you on Monday.” That was the most sobering time of my life.
We tried everything possible to make his life normal. He studied in a very good school. He tried to study hard and behave very well. Nevertheless, society had a hard time accepting him.
I was dead at 9:23 in the morning. My medical report shows the ambulance arrived at the hospital at 9:58am. There had been no vital signs in my body for twenty-five minutes. I was clinically dead.
I had twenty-seven operations and four plastic surgery operations. When I got out of the hospital nine months later I looked okay on the outside; but inside I was still wounded.
But I couldn’t escape the idea that suicide would be a good escape. It was like I was holding on the casket of my wife, and as morbid as it sounds was like I was being buried. I remember picturing myself breaking my grip with...