One Friday morning in September 2023, my neurologist told me she suspected that I had ALS. I was completely healthy—or so I thought—and in the prime of my life. I had two adult children, a great career, and a wonderful marriage. I was 56, and both of my parents were still alive. My diagnosis was confirmed two months later. I felt as if I had just been told not only that I would die, but that I would be tortured to death, and that it would drag out over several years.
I was the chief clinical officer at Mount Sinai Health System in New York City, trained as an internist and geriatrician, and I've cared for many dying patients. Of all the people in the universe, you'd think I would be the person most ready to hear the news that I had a terminal condition. Instead, I discovered that the intellectual awareness of death and the emotional reality of facing it yourself are completely unrelated.
