I had to give blood. All my blood. I don't remember why. But I remember the fear. The decisions were all made and the needle was in, surge of crimson and desperation. The terror of the unknown, that this was it. The last moments, beyond which was anhiliation. Praying to a Jesus and God I wasn't sure I believed in. Knowing that at that point I'd give anything for it to stop, anything to know that I would be waking up again. The Devil would have whispered and I would have listened. They tell me, just go to sleep...

Maybe if they could tell me why. If I knew that one of my boys would have lived with my blood, it would have been easier. But to be meaningless is to be afraid. Sometimes that's a good thing, because meaning can induce a man to blow himself up in a crowded market. Fear limits our range of actions. So: Is it possible to be both free of delusions and unafraid of death?