None of this was supposed to happen. At 38, I wasn’t supposed to lie on my back in the E.R. on a late December morning and be told by a teary radiation oncology resident that the pain I’d been having for two months — that I’d been assured was from having a weak core after months of chemo — was actually from a tumor that had devoured my L2 vertebra. John wasn’t supposed to have to hold me up on the toilet. Put my pants on for me. Do Christmas Eve for the children without me. I’m not supposed to be thinking about where he will sit and hold my hand as I take my last breath.

Fifteen years ago, a bacteria went to my heart. For three days they didn’t know if I was going to live or not.

My failed driving test a few months ago. I got three majors and by the end of it the examiner couldn’t wait to get out of the car.

A death threat at Glastonbury festival in 1989. The police told me not to go on, but I said I had to because I was headlining. So I wore a bullet-proof vest. It seemed unlikely that I would be assassinated, but it was shocking and very stressful.

On my deathbed thinking I wish I would have done something that I didn’t do.

The day my son was born.

You’re going to come up against brick walls in life. You’ve got to go over them, under them, around them, or crash through them, but somehow or other you’ve got to get to the other side.

Aside from the night that my wife said yes, creating Riverdance and Lord of the Dance, and employing thousands of dancers for the last 30 years.

I always try to see the good. I never look for the bad.

Digging foundations in the freezing-cold Chicago winters.