If Rebecca lives, there will be a relatively long stretch in hospital, followed by a far longer stretch outside of hospital... apart from an infamous case of what she'll insist is gangrene (read: an ingrown toenail), and that day spent in a hospital bay, creating chaos. She'll hit on three doctors and end up sharing a bottle of vino with a nurse, after his shift (read: they'll drink too many neon shots).
If Rebecca lives, her nurse friend will melt into a pot of many men and a fair few women, before she'll settle down with a quiet, unassuming, laid back and completely undramatic fellow, who is everything Rebecca is not. He'll be a surprise to people around her, but after a little while, nobody will be able to imagine them apart.
If Rebecca lives, she'll enjoy more than anything the times spent with her family, before she heads up as family of her own, which'll be bigger than the average Catholic rabbit's. She'll love more and deeper than she ever thought possible and will adore life with the ferocity she once reserved for hating it.
If Rebecca lives, she'll retain her knowledge of how dark and dismal life can be, and will use that to empower herself to change the world. She'll sometimes seem overly ambitious, but only to people who underestimate her. She'll realise she's in a unique position and that she has a duty to make a difference, and so will lean on governments to really care. She'll do something big and important.
If Rebecca lives, life will test her and won't always be beautiful. At times, the darkness will threaten to overwhelm her again, but she'll remember how she fought for her life- beautiful as it is or isn't- and will know she can never go back. She'll maintain her eccentricities, but she'll also manage to mostly maintain her mental health; she'll have blips, not relapses, and her days as a revolving door psych ward patient will be left in her teens and early 20s.
If Rebecca lives, she'll weep more tears through laughter than crying; will dance in her kitchen more than she will cook in it; will use her hairdryer more for warming up her knickers than for drying her hair; will wear socks with sandals more than the strange eastern European bloke who gawps at her through her window in her 30s, which she so totally hates (read: is very flattered by, and sometimes finds herself putting on a show for).
If Rebecca dies, there will be a wooden box. And silence. She'll never love, change the world, fight, laugh, dance, heat her knickers, wear socks with sandals or put on a show. Just darkness and silence.