And there might be no prospect of improvement. Death deprives us of many futures, good, bad, and middling It might be that his poor health and reckless lifestyle would have finished him off soon afterwards, so that surviving his bout of pneumonia would have led to another fatal illness only a few months later.
Hopefully a few friends and members of my family will still be present, and they will pop a bottle or two and remember me fondly. From time to time I would be visited by doleful children, depressed by your surroundings and the state of you, guiltily hoping that you die before all the loot is swallowed up and wasted, in keeping a useless bag of bones like you alive.
This is because no one wants to die and the very thought of death is enough to send chills down our spine. So instead, after a trip to the crematorium, I want my ashes thrown into the sea, around the back of the Forty Foot in Sandy Cove on some warm gentle summers evening.
But how great? Again and again when taking my daily swim in the sea I often find my self-musing, am I going to drown this time? I rarely travel in a car without imagining it crashing, or see a plane flying, without thinking is it going to fall from the sky.
Waiting for the inevitable, fading and fading and fading but still managing not to die, becoming a mere husk of my former self; your life utterly changed by what you have experienced.
That would obviously be bad for me: it would make me worse off than I am now. There is vigorous debate about whether people with an agonising terminal illness should have the right to end their lives, and whether doctors should be allowed to help them do it.
Yet there is no saying exactly what good things those are.