In that instant? When the sword cuts my flesh, or the giant’s hammer descends, or the dragon’s flames curl my skin? When I know it is happening, when I know beyond doubt that Death has come for me, will I be surprised or calm, accepting or panicked? I tell myself that I am prepared. I have surrounded the question logically, rationally, removing emotion, accepting the inevitability. But knowing it will happen and knowing there is nothing I can do to stop it from happening is a different level of acceptance, perhaps, than any actual preparation for that onetime, ultimate event. Can anything be more unsettling to conscious thought than the likely end of conscious thought? This notion is not something I dwell upon. I do not go to my bed each night with the worry of the moment of death climbing under my blanket beside me. In merely asking this question—in the moment of my death, will I be surprised?—I suspect that I am entertaining the notion more than many, more than most, likely.
