Treating illnesses is why we became doctors. Treating patients is what makes most doctors miserable.
What is love but a kind of creature waiting to be unbound? A malady. What does it bring any of us but… confusion and bedevilment?
Skyler, you’ve read the statistics. These doctors talking about surviving. One year, two years, like it’s the only thing that matters. But what good is it, to just survive if I am too sick to work, to enjoy a meal, to make love? For what time I have left, I want to live in my own house. I want to sleep in my own bed. I don’t wanna choke down 30 or 40 pills every single day, lose my hair, and lie around too tired to get up, and so nauseated that I can’t even move my head. And you cleaning up after me? Me, with… some dead man, some artificially alive… just marking time? No. No. And that’s how you would remember me. That’s the worst part. So… that is my thought process, Skyler. I’m sorry. I just… I choose not to do it.