A doctor once told me that her boyfriend had died under anaesthesia. I remarked, stupidly, "At least he died happy." "Wrong," she responded, "He died unaware. That's different." Many people don't like the idea of death as eternal sleep, and struggle through one religion after another in an attempt to convince themselves that it won't happen, that we'll still somehow be "us" after death. As for me, I find it easy to accept, and think (indeed, hope) it's the case. That feeling was corroborated when I had major surgery earlier this year. Under anaesthesia, I had simply "left the building." I was no more — no feeling, no thought, no dreams, no nothing. And no complaints, despite the appalling things they were doing to my body. Sure beats that tiresome heaven/hell expectation that cheats so many of us out of a real life.