The diagnosis was like a cold hand gripping my heart—end-stage liver cancer, a direct consequence of my relentless pursuit of oblivion through alcohol. The doctor’s words echoed in a hollow chamber of disbelief and regret. “You have only months left,” he said, his voice a detached note in the symphony of my impending demise.

My journey to this precipice was paved with the clinking of glasses, the amber glow of liquid deceit filling my glass night after night. I chased the high, the escape, the numbing of pain that life doled out in spades. But with each swallow, I was etching my fate, crafting my end with the precision of a master artisan.

The rock bottom wasn’t a singular moment; it was a series of tumbling descents, each more desperate than the last. I alienated those I loved, squandered my health, and danced with death as if it were a partner leading me in a waltz of destruction. Yet, even as my body protested, with jaundiced eyes and a swollen abdomen, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—halt my descent.

Now, confined within the sterile walls of a hospital room, I’m haunted by the ‘what ifs’. What if I had heeded the warnings? What if I had seen the terror in my loved ones’ eyes not as judgment, but as care? The ‘what ifs’ are a torment, a chorus of voices singing songs of a life that could have been.

To those who find themselves on the precipice of where I once stood, teetering on the edge of decision, I offer this: It is not yet too late for you. Please use my story… as a lighthouse warning of the rocks that will dash your life against the shore of mortality. The grip of alcohol is unyielding, but so is the power of choice. Choose life, choose to fight, choose to turn back from the path I tread.

My legacy will not be one of triumph, but if my tale can steer even one soul from the maelstrom that claimed me, then perhaps, in the ledger of life, there will be a line of redemption.

Remember, there’s always a last call, a moment when the night ends. Don’t let that last call be your life’s final chapter. Turn the page, seek help, embrace the morning light of recovery. For you, unlike me, it is not too late.