A friend sent me a video of a kid with a heart condition. He talked about how, when his heart was giving out and he was being wheeled into the hospital on a stretcher, he saw a bright light that wasn't there and felt at peace. This was my response:
It's funny how our beliefs shape our experiences. When I was being carried out on a stretcher by paramedics, I didn't see a white light. What I noticed was that the very cold oxygen canister they'd stuck under my knees had shifted and was whacking against my ass at every step. My mind doesn't go to spiritual places, it focuses on the details of the moment I'm in, so I perceive a life-threatening moment in terms of little discomforts that distract me from the bigger picture. Not the wrenching pain in my chest, the the struggle to keep breathing, the fear in my husband's face, or the possibility that I'll never see my children again, but the cold canister bumping my butt. When I remember the most terrifying moment of my life, that's what comes to mind.
So that's me. Utterly prosaic. Don't get me wrong, I was quite terrified afterwards and it took quite a while to stop feeling that way, but not at the time. If another octopus comes for me and I don't make it, know that I was too busy noticing the little details to be afraid.