April 28. Genetic test next Wednesday. The assistant takes my medical history and that of all family members over the phone, and I explain for what seems like the umpteenth time that I’m not interested in the usual genes, but only the mutations responsible for my vascular structures in the brain, which were discovered from 2010 onwards. I google the research on this and send her the links, hoping it is detailed enough so that the genetic test can be focused on it.

It is strange, after all, that I am fully alive, with a complex consciousness, that can yet be snapped out of existence from one moment to the next. It seems mean that losing consciousness is so easy, but regaining it impossible.

Twice this week I took the scooter to Union Square and back again. J and I disagree about bike helmets. She says, yes, I’m an adult, but points out that delivery cyclists all wear helmets. No, I count them: Less than half do. And I’ve done a back-of-the-envelope: the probability of having a fatal bicycle accident in Manhattan is less than 0.1% per year. At this level, I don’t negotiate with fate.