While illness keeps me always aware of my mortality, I realize that what matters most is not that I survive, nor even that my species survives, but that life itself continues to evolve.

We all have some genes that for unknown reasons are in the “off” mode; perhaps scientists will someday figure out how to flip these switches, and we’ll each be able to choose other interesting animal traits: a tail, striped fur, wings, or even gastropod tentacles.

With its mysterious, fluid movement, the snail was the quintessential tai chi master.

We had each journeyed to this office from our own distant planet of illness. Though strangers, we became instant, silent companions. We were here for the same purpose: to describe our alien experience to the doctor in hope of survival advice.

Those of us with illnesses are the holders of the silent fears of those with good health.

One has to respect the preferences of another creature, no matter its size, and I did so gladly.

What majesty is in a creeping Snail, what reflection, what earnestness, what timidity and yet at the same time what firm confidence!

The life of a snail is as full of tasty food, comfortable beds of sorts, and a mix of pleasant and not-so-pleasant adventures as that of anyone I know.

The snail and I were both living in altered landscapes not of our choosing; I figured we shared a sense of loss and displacement. E.

They would worry about wearing me out, but I could also see that I was a reminder of all they feared: chance, uncertainty, loss and the sharp edge of mortality.