"So this is not new information to you then," he asked with a grimace, the reality of her words sinking in. Looking at him through the camera, she shook her head in acknowledgement, "It's not, no." "But how long have you known? Why wouldn't you..." He paused, visibly moved by the effort of trying to address a range of emotions. "I mean I'm sure you have your reasons and it's not my place to ask... It just, it doesn't..."  She felt her eyes burn, her throat ache. This was the part she would have liked to skip. She had no doubt she mattered to people, that she had made whatever difference she could. She did not want to cause pain. "I just don't understand," he finally said helplessly, looking at the live video of her being transmitted to his screen. "Why not try to fight? You have always been so strong. Don't you want ..." He frowned, "Doesn't any part of you want to stay?" "Of course I want to stay," She responded instantly, her breath catching at the idea of conveying anything else. "Of course I do." Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she went on, tears in her eyes, "I didn't ask for cancer. I didn't ask for this. Maybe if it had been caught earlier, there would be more ..." "But aren't..." He started, shaking his head as if he didn't hear her--not wanting to hear her--, struggling to find the right words, the right sentiment. "Are you not happy with your life?" "Sam--" She choked on the emotion of the moment. Clearing her throat, "Sam. I love my life. I have done every thing I could--" "Then why not try?!" He cut her off, agitated, momentarily overcome by frustration.  They both fell silent, looking at each other through their respective monitors. They did not live in the same city. They had worked together for years, had met a handful of times, but this was the medium through which they knew each other best. They had disagreed on occasion, though most often their conversations were collaborative, peppered with laughter and camaraderie. It was not like either of them to snap at the other. Softening his tone, Sam tried again, "I just mean... if there is any chance at all, isn't it worth a a shot?" She was shaking her head before he even finished the sentence. "The odds of me having the same quality of life even if they 'save me' are very low," she replied, wiping at her eyes. Looking at him earnestly, she emphasized, "They are very low, Sam. I am not willing to stay here at just any cost. I'm sorry. I know it must seem so selfish, --" "No," he interjected immediately, feeling guilty, confused, helpless,--so many emotions all at once--, wanting to reassure her, "No, of course not, it's just--" "--but I am the one who would have to live with those changes, that quality of life loss. Every moment of every day. No one else. And I don't want to, Sam." She looked at him earnestly through the camera, repeating, emphasizing, "I just don't want to. "I would still be alive, maybe, but you would all still lose me. I'd lose me. Please try to understand. I did not choose this disease, but I have a right to choose how I navigate it, what I am willing to allow it to take from me." Tears were running down her face. She could see them standing in his eyes as well. "I do understand," he relented, nodding in resignation, a deep frown settling on his face. "I just really want it to be different." "Me too," she agreed, voice steady, certain, even as the tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "Me too."

Hearing these words, having to own my proximity to them as a citizen of this country, I wonder what it means for my identity as an American.

"His words in regards to my friend were so vile. I wanted nothing to do with him. I was heartbroken, I was enraged,...

As children death seems the worst kind of loss, yet I have discovered mourning the living a pain much more acute.