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Foodies: such a silly, sing-song word; it didn’t make me smile. Not much could after Doctor Ellis’ six-month diagnosis. He’d introduced me to the dining group by way of apology.
“People should find pleasure at the end,” he’d said. “I know it’s cold comfort but little indulgences can do wonders in what time remains.”
It was a selfish claim. He didn’t care about the quality of my life. Like everyone, he cared about his perception of it. Trust me: quality of life is less about the emotions of the dying person than those of the people around them. Ellis proved that. It only took a few weeks—and catching my girlfriend with another man—to convince me. But at least tonight could be all about being selfish.
Fillets of rainbow parrot fish wrapped around delicate, alginate-coated spheres of ostrich egg yolk were our amuse-bouche. It was pure decadence.
I greeted people as they arrived, watching their eyes linger on me. From my wheelchair, I was careful not to trip anyone with my IV. All of them shook my hand and no one looked away. They’d come for my last meal and didn’t want to be impolite.