I met David Bowie once.

I met him because I won a radio contest. I met him because I wanted it more than anyone ever wanted anything for 17 solid years.

The next day on the radio, the DJ said it was "like watching someone meet the Beatles in 1965."

It must have looked like that. But instead of 50,000 screaming girls and blurred, hurried figures rushing by, there was just me, all teary-eyed and quiet, and sincere, and him. He stopped for me, before he went on to greet the others waiting, and he hugged me. He held my hand and he spoke to me. He looked me in the eye and he understood. He made the whole wide world stop right there. Just for a few minutes, but he did it.

I said soon afterward that I would remember that moment on my death bed.

Well. Here I am.

And, wouldn't you know it -- there's Bowie playing softly in the background. The "Low" album. Slow side. Love those songs.

I've had a good life. A little too short for my liking, but a good, good life. I've seen my dreams come true. A few of them I even made come true. How many people can say that and mean it? All of my dreams came true.

And all my dreams weren't as juvenile as meeting David Bowie - although even at the very end I still maintain that was one damned good moment - but each was just as unlikely. And they all came true. Every last thing I ever wanted, no matter how far-fetched, came to me by and by.

Except this one. I want to live.

But now my daughter and my son are with me in this room and I see in their faces that this dream's not coming true. I know I'm dying.

I can sense it in the quiet way the nurse comes in and out, reading machines, checking my pulse, patting my hand with that tight little smile and knit eyebrows.

I knew it when they turned on "Low."

So, I am quiet now, listening to the rising strains of "Speed of Life," and looking out the window of my bedroom. The lights are dimmed and twilight falls. I suppose, if I have to leave, this is as good a way as I could ask for.

Nothing hurts. I'm in no pain, really. I'm just tired. And I want to hold on, but it's getting harder. And I'm not afraid, the way I thought I'd be. I'm more curious than scared, but I'm just not ready.

I don't say a word. I've said all I've needed to say. All my goodbyes are over. They were unrehearsed, but heartfelt and honest.

I don't dwell on the things I'm leaving, the things I'll never do or see again. Instead I listen and remember my moments. I close my eyes finally, and inhale deeply, one more time. I see David Bowie's eyes.

I don't know what's coming.

But I'll go now. I'll go.