A friend of mine is in the late stages of a tragic pregnancy that will lead either to a stillborn baby or, at best, to a baby that will struggle for a few hours and die. The prognosis was made early on and the decision to take the baby to term was made.
We have no guarantee of numbers. We think our days are infinite but they are not. One will be the last. And this not the hardest part. The hardest is knowing those we cherish will share our fate; we can make no deal to change that.
A generous slice of the citizenry thinks we might be the cleverest creatures in the Milky Way. But the suggestion that we're a special case makes me uneasy. It implies our existence is a miracle, and after all, miracles are science's last resort.