I sometimes wonder how many people fear or truly ponder death. I don't think many do, not until it arrives and stares them down. I always imagined how I would react when a doctor told me the awful truth that my time was limited. In a way I got my answer while I was confined to the Frankston psych ward and a doctor paid me a visit. It felt more like a grave warning than a definitive death sentence. He told me I would die if I ever drank again — that I had severe kidney disease. Strangely, it didn’t faze me as much as I thought it might. I had expected denial or panic, but instead I found myself oddly calm, almost relieved. I took it as the clear motivation I needed to stop drinking; after hearing that, having a beer would have seemed foolhardy. Now, sober and away from that toxic habit, I can only hope my kidney has a chance to recover.