I always thought I would be stoic, calm, maybe even a little heroic in my fortitude, when finally faced with death. Of course that didn’t include being tortured or hit by a bus or anything crazy, but, when my time came, I would be able to accept it in old age as the inevitable end of a life well lived and go quietly and with dignity to my grave.

It didn’t happen like that and I learned much, much more about myself than I really wanted to know.

Constant pain finally drove me to see a doctor, who immediately referred me to a specialist. After a week of tests, blood taken and an MRI, the specialist gave me my death sentence. Liver and pancreatic cancer, spread too far for any expectation of remission. Metastases, funny the stuff you learn as you go. I should have gone to see him earlier. In a way I knew that sub-consciously but like many men I had ignored the nagging warning signs. Surely they would go away.

Six months to live, maybe a year or even a bit more with chemotherapy and radio therapy. At my age that was as good a prognosis as I could expect. I was already past the three-score-and-ten.

I went home stunned. At first I wallowed in a kind of limbo. For two days belief was suspended. I found that denial is not a river in Egypt. Not me. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t true. I had always been as healthy as the proverbial horse. I must surely have another ten to fifteen years.

Then fear, abject terror and grief hit me together. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t deserve to die. Not yet. Yes, it happens, but not to me. Noooo! No way!

How do I describe the next few days? Rage. Smashing the furniture (metaphorically, of course) Despair. Weeping. Whimpering. Self pity. Thoughts of suicide……..strange that, when it was death I was afraid of. Although it was the prospect of that inevitable decline into pain and suffering that was even more terrifying. I had seen my own father become a shadow of himself as he oh so slowly succumbed to prostate cancer and I couldn’t bear the thought of going like that. Seemed like I didn’t have a choice.

Eventually, of course, I had cried enough tears and felt sorry for myself for long enough and I forced myself back to the doctors to start the useless treatments that would give me a few more months of futile life. I wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry that my marriage was over and my kids somewhat distant.

Glad was a bit better, on the whole. I didn’t want to be a burden or an object of pity during my final days. I could at least retain the dignity afforded by having impersonal nursing staff looking after me when I finally descended into a bed-wetting, shitting, trembling mess, looking forward only to my next dose of morphine, and, hey, maybe the diagnoses were wrong and I would make fools of the doctors.

I started the treatments. Chemo is every bit as bad as you might have heard. You feel sick and exhausted most of the time. The chemicals are only a little more poisonous to cancer cells than they are to healthy cells. Getting out of bed in the morning just doesn’t seem worth it most days, but you drag yourself through the motions. Nausea lurks ever-ready in your throat and occasionally takes you by surprise. Oncology is just another word for torture.

I didn’t have much hair to start with. The genes I inherited had already taken most of it, but the remaining fringe disappeared in a matter of weeks, falling out as I combed it each day until I was totally bald. Sick as I was I was still vain enough to hate that unwanted new look, but there seemed to be little point in trying to disguise it by wearing a wig or some kind of hat, so I deluded myself into half-believing that I looked fashionable without a hair on my head.

My face gradually turned into a skin-covered skull with blood-shot eyes and my body into a facsimile of a resident of Dachau or Belsen. The weight just dropped off of me. This was the ultimate diet; pity you couldn’t market it. The side-effects were a real bitch.

Six months and the chemo had done whatever it was ever going to do. I can’t say I felt any better for it, but without it I might have felt much worse....or, even worse, felt nothing at all. I was so thankful for the six-week break before they put me on the radio-therapy. I was probably going down-hill but straight pain seemed preferable to the awful debilitation of the chemo.

Then they started the radio. It wasn’t painful but every day I felt exhausted, and my appetite, such as it was, dwindled to nothing. Food was absolutely tasteless as a side-effect of the treatment and I had to force myself to choke it down. My weight kept on going down and by the time the torture was over I weighed only 45 kilos. I knew the end was near. I had lasted the predicted year and couldn’t say I enjoyed it, but I still REALLY did not want to die. Fear? Stubbornness? A bit of both? There were still things to do, places to see, people to meet.....oh, crap, you know what I mean.

Now I never believed in miracles and I’m certainly not religious. I said goodbye to my kids and grandkids…..even my ex-wife came to see me…….and I told them all to leave me alone and not come back until I was dead. I think they were all relieved that I didn’t want them hanging around.

They would all be more than happy to put me in the ground and attend the reading of my will. Don’t get me wrong…..I didn’t blame them. I’d never been too happy to be round sick people either.

My doctors sent me to another specialist, who gave me another thorough going-over. What a waste of time, I thought, but I dare not pass up the vaguest glimmer of hope.

After he finished examining me he sat and looked at me for a few minutes. I was a little unnerved by his silence, but it wasn’t unfriendly. He was sizing me up......for what?

“Richard, if you repeat what I am about to say I will deny it and say that you are so close to death that you are delusional. That’s partly true. You are close to death; a few weeks at most. Do you want a chance? It’s a very risky chance and I can give no guarantees.”

My heart almost stopped anyway, at being offered hope. I’ve been around a long time and I’ve listened to an awful lot of bullshit. I knew all the stories about people in my situation being offered miracle cures and spending all that they had left on a crock of shit, but he didn’t sound like a snake-oil salesman. I just hoped that my desperation wouldn’t overcome my good sense.

“Oh, yeah, doc. How many million will it cost me?”

He gave me a thin smile, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms before answering.

“You’re right to be suspicious. Look, if you agree, it will cost you $100,000. That’s basically for nursing and palliative care. It’s a highly experimental procedure, with absolutely no guarantee of success. I won’t lie to you. You will be the first human subject. We’ve tried it with rats and mice and dogs.The results have been encouraging but not 100% successful. I have backers because it will be a goldmine if it works, but if we go through the regular medical protocols it’ll be twenty years before it’s approved.

“I want to save lives…..and the prospect of a Nobel is nice too……not to mention being wealthy. I’m asking you because, to put it bluntly, if it doesn’t work you won’t be around to tell the authorities about my “crime”. I’ll get you to sign all the relevant releases, of course, but if I’m exposed, I’ll never be allowed to practice medicine again. If it does work I don’t think you will be in the least bit inclined to snitch on me. Are you interested in hearing more?”

“I’m listening. I just hope you’re not shitting me.”

“Good man, and no, I’m not shitting you. My colleagues and I have been researching a new approach to cancer and have had considerable success in animal trials, though not in every case.In some there was no improvement at all. As you know, there are many different types of cancer and we haven’t found the magic bullet that will treat all of them, but I have reason to believe that we can at least put yours into remission. We’ve brought together different branches of medical science that haven’t been combined before, and what we are doing goes right down to the most basic genetic level and resets your body.”

“Keep going, Doc. I’m not a total ignoramus in medical matters. It’s been my principal interest for the last year or more, for obvious reasons.”

“Well, I won’t try to describe the process in detail, but what we’ve been developing is a combination of targeted chemicals, enzymes, benign viruses and bacteria and wrapping them into tiny packages made of nano particles which adhere to the sites of the cancer cells and release the drug cocktail where it is needed. Do you know what telomeres do?”

“I know the word and they are something to do with chromosomes. Nanoparticles? Isn’t there a danger they will turn you into grey goo?”

“You’ve been reading too much science fiction. These are just very small particles, not the fabled nano bots. They’re inert. They’re just a wrapper. Anyway, telomeres actively repair cells, but over time they wear out and actually help to promote and perpetuate a number of cancers. One of the theories is that when they wear out we age. For my money that's absolutely true.

“Well , we believe we’ve found a mechanism to stop them from wearing out and we’ve found a way to make them not only keep on repairing, but continuing the process until the cell is in pristine condition, exactly as nature intended it to be when it reached maturity. In the process the cancer disappears as if it had never existed.”

“This is sounding better and better. Go on. What’s the catch?”

“There may be side-effects…..that’s assuming the treatment works, and we don’t know why. Some of the test animals have exhibited abnormal growths and some have developed totally different types of cancer. In most cases though there has been age regression back to a point which appears to be just after puberty in the most extreme cases.”

“Did I hear that right? You’re offering a cure for cancer AND eternal youth?”

The doctor looked a bit pained.

“That’s putting it crudely and overstating the case at the same time. If it works you will get younger for sure, but when the treatment ceases you will age normally.”

“Never mind. Where do I sign up?”

“Let me finish. Some of the test subjects also developed secondary sexual characteristics of the opposite sex. We have no idea why.”

“You mean I might grow tits or something?”

“Look, I think it’s unlikely, but you will be our first human subject and it’s only fair that you understand the risks.”

“I’m 90% dead and if I do nothing I’ll be 100% dead in a few weeks. Just bring me whatever I have to sign and let me write out a cheque and then don’t waste any more of my time. Let’s get started.”

“You’re sure? You’re a brave man, Richard.”

I croaked out what passed for a laugh these days.

“No, hardly. It’s because I’m an utter coward, and I don’t want to die. How long will the treatment take?”

“That depends on how stubborn the cancer is and how effective the process proves to be. Anything between six months and a couple of years, I’m guessing. For you, probably longer rather than shorter.”

I signed all the paperwork and gave him a cheque. I didn’t want to hang around. Just because they said I had a few weeks didn’t mean I couldn’t shuffle off this mortal coil earlier. I rang my son and told him I was going in for one last try and my flat was his to do as he wanted with. I told my solicitor by email to have me declared dead if he hadn’t heard from me in two years.

Then with no further delay I was taken to a private clinic in a secluded country house only half an hour’s drive from the city to begin. It was superbly equipped, which made me feel a bit better about the whole insane exercise.

Well……it worked…….kinda, or I wouldn’t still be here, but I don’t think the doc’s going to get his Nobel yet and you won’t see the product on the market for a while, although there might be a really kinky niche for it.

There is no doubt my cancers are gone. I feel gloriously healthy as I take my daily run along the beach.

The development of secondary sexual characteristics? In spades, yeah?

I am young and 100% female. There’s nothing like being pregnant to demonstrate that. They tried everything they knew to stop my transformation but, not knowing what was causing it, they couldn’t do too much, and didn’t want to kill me in the process. Needless to say I appreciated that, but then we were all making medical history, me most of all.I can watch the videos over and over.

They were amazed when my bone structure began to change so radically and even more amazed when I started to menstruate. It was a difficult time for me getting used to my new body and when I felt the need for sex I was just like a bitch in heat. I had to have it and I did. He was so handsome. I couldn’t resist him and I obviously had the same effect on him. We fucked like a couple of animals. I really loved the feeling of that big cock inside me and now I will soon be a proud mother.

I leap as high as I can to catch the Frisbee Doc threw towards me and trot over to him, panting lightly from my exertion. I drop it in front of him and stretch luxuriously, getting the kinks out of my body.

I have got to know Doc well over the last three years. He is a lovely man and never gave up on me even when I didn’t turn out quite the way he would have liked. He has promised me another treatment when some of the bugs are ironed out.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he says for the hundredth time as he scratches behind my ears and I affectionately lick his hand, wagging my tail furiously to show there are no hard feelings.