He is a negative thinking fatalist, the Complete and Total Loser. Or not. He thinks both that his higher PSA count will spell his doom, yet part of him expects the retest in three months will make his doctor comically wipe his brow and go, "Whew! Guess that last test was a fluke! You're fine!"
No, not expects. Hopes.
Last night, lying in bed, the Loser felt feverish, as if his entire body were mildly inflamed. (He has a new word for feeling off: Cancery.)
While in bed, he was thinking of how he'd write a final letter to the people he knows. He thought of the details of delivering it; compiling email addresses, which of his two brothers to entrust with the duty of sending the posthumous message, what he'd say.
The subject line matters. He wouldn't want people he's fallen out of touch with to delete it, thinking it's spam. He'd use the simple one he used when his parents died less than two months apart in 2011: Name, date of birth, dash, date of death.