(This post is a day late because yesterday the internet was down!)

The last few -weeks have been hellish in this country. We’ve seen the worst of human nature on display, not only in the shooters, but in many of the people responding to the shootings. We’ve seen a government paralyzed, incapable of taking action despite so many people hurting. This is the human race. We are as hateful and power-hungry and irrational as we are caring and loving and problem-solving.

None of what has happened is new, of course, but the quick succession of the two shootings and the fact that the second one involved young kids, makes it hard not to feel bludgeoned. And furious. And helpless. And hopeless. Quite honestly, it doesn’t feel like a bad time to call it quits.

Since my ALS diagnosis I have been somewhat cavalier about my impending death. I haven’t fought it. I’m  not happy about my body weakening, but so far I have found the journey to be more interesting than alarming. The thought of death itself has seemed peaceful.

I once worked as a Hospice volunteer, sitting with dying patients and talking to them, sometimes helping them record their memories. The experience was very illuminating, but not in the way I expected. What I learned was how difficult it is to die. It takes effort and concentration to sever the life connection. One story we volunteers were told in our training was about a man who was near death and comatose. His family had gathered to say goodbye. One person arrived who was exceptionally loud. The man awakened and spoke. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m trying to die.” Stories abound about dying people who cannot succumb until their loved ones have left the room. Most people cling to life even when death is clearly inevitable.

I have looked at what is happening across the planet, everywhere the worst of human nature prevailing—dictators, mass murder, genocide, war—and it seems as if these things should make the passage from life to death easier. But I can already see that, when the time comes, I will be loathe to go. I, too, will hold on fiercely

I write now looking out at a misty morning on a quiet ocean bay, the water glassine, seals popping up, honking geese passing through, sea lions growling on distant rocks. The sight summons me to life. As does the aromatic morning coffee, the first sip opening my eyes a little wider. Now I can see the array of objects on my bedside table: a book, my phone, air pods. I notice smells coming from the kitchen, cheesy eggs and toast. On the table I spot the stack of pages that are my novel-in-progress, half-written, demanding my attention. Also on the table is a vase of flowers sent down the hill by adored friends. A text arrives from my son whose unfolding  life I revel in watching. This evening the sunset will bleed its beauty over the western sky, lighting up the lawn and my husband’s face as we listen to more disastrous news. The roses have dropped a petal or two. I am kneading my weak left hand. My husband reaches out to touch me, and the warmth of his hand feels greater than that of the sun.

The world is a hellish place and despite it all I don’t want to go. I will be sucking life’s marrow  ‘til the very end. Another minute, please. Just one more. My eyes and ears and skin are still active. I’m still thinking, still sending and receiving love.

At some point, when everyone leaves the room, I will do the hard work of letting go.