Receiving a death sentence is special, to say the least. You think you know everything, have been through it all, and feel you can be practical about it. But it pierces your soul like a sharp dagger. You embark on a journey with no clear destination. And the people you love will stand there waving goodbye in their Sunday best. I received the verdict on a crystal-clear September day from a doctor with dry, warm hands in a white room with a window open towards a black tree. My name is Leif Sandberg, and this is the story of the seconds, minutes, days and nights that followed. Ending deals with panic and getting old.