I'm dying. Not right now, not tomorrow. But I am. I have a genetic disorder, the complications of which will eventually kill me. I know how I'm going to die: I am going to suffocate slowly and painfully. I never thought I was going to know how I was going to die. But now I do. It seems like I should be scared, but I am almost comforted by the lack of mystery. I am going to miss out on a lot of things. Like kids. I won't have any. I won't raise any. I won't get to take my daughter to piano lessons as she complains. I won't be able to watch my son almost win the spelling bee. And I want that so much. But it is highly unlikely that I will be able to do that.