In my sleep. In bed. With a half-eaten egg salad sandwich on my chest.

My pain is under control and I'm terribly happy - it sounds weird to say, but I'm as happy as I've ever been in my life. I used to think I'd rather be hit by the proverbial bus, but having a couple of months knowing this is coming has really helped me both do the boring 'death-min', but also get my thoughts and prepare myself, and feel so accepting of what's to come. It's been such a great bonus, actually.

With a malicious grin that implies I know something you don’t.

In my bed at home at a ripe old age with the knowledge that my children, and grandchildren if I have any, are thriving, happy, and provided for.

Both of the days my children were born. It was like I’d stepped through a mirror and everything turned Technicolor.

My distractibility, diminishing memory, and capacity for sustained concentration. My English master once said I had the brain of a butterfly. I feel that 40 years later, I’ve evolved into Dory from Finding Nemo.

The loss of anything, be it a loved one or a faculty—my sight, hearing, or mind.

My mother. She’s 85 and rather than diminishing with age, she keeps surprising and growing more marvelous. She finds fun when most are jaded, wonder when most are cynical, and is curious when most are bored. She gave me life and continues to show me how to live it daily. And I know that everyone who meets her thinks the same.

In my bed, a hot-water bottle on my tummy, the windows are open, reading a book that I’m already into, chocolate at hand, all with the knowledge that everyone I love and know is happy.