Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
“Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”
-- Robert Louis Stevenson
He had consumption (aka TB). Can you blame him for welcoming the grave? Below is Monet's wife on her deathbed with consumption (aka TB and aka the artists' disease). I don't have that; the symptoms don't match, but I have great sympathy for them.