Thought I was going to die.  Not that big a deal, really.  I had been praying for death to come since before Thanksgiving.  But when your body fails, no matter how much you have been asking for it, or how much you think you have wanted it, it is an experience that shakes you like a child and wakes you up.  I had a temperature of 104.9, and I could have died if I really wanted to—if only I had stayed home and not called anyone for help. 

I don't know how badly I want to live, but I know I don't want to die.  I guess I have just always wanted to complain about living.  Maybe it's like the ICU nurse said when I confessed to her the death wish I'd had before my illness—I'm just not ready to die.  Maybe I am scared; that certainly is true, but maybe there is something more. 

Judging by the outpouring of affection I experienced during and after my febrile delerium, I have to conclude that my passing will not go unnoticed, as I had pretended it would.  Friends and family who do not deserve to be injured will be hurt by my passing, and even though that by itself is not reason enough for me to keep on living, it does point me in the right direction.  I don't want to hurt anybody, but staying alive because dying would hurt others is folly.  I must live my life for its own sake, and I guess I have to start learning how to do that.