At the extreme end of the fear spectrum is panic. I recently witnessed such panic in a person I met during one of my treatments. Bob (not his real name) is a likable enough fellow, but he is a driven man. Like me, he has ALS. He refuses to call his ALS “Lou Gehrig’s disease” because it has nothing to do with Lou Gehrig. It is his disease. It is Bob’s disease.

After his diagnosis, his sole mission in life was to find a treatment that worked. He told me that he couldn’t go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without stopping by his computer and doing a search to see if some new breakthrough had been achieved. He ordered experimental medicines from India and Japan. He sent me videos on cannabis and nutrition that made extraordinary claims. Simply put, he refused to accept what the doctors told him. There must be — MUST BE! — something that worked.

When I asked him why he was afraid to die, he denied that he was. He said he was merely thinking of his wife and children and how to support them. But I knew he was lying. He never mentioned getting his finances in order or the plans he was making to provide for his family. His entire focus was on himself. On getting better. On not dying.

In contrast to Bob, there’s … well … me. I’m not panicked. I’m not afraid. In fact, I’m routinely cheerful, and that makes me stick out (or at least so I’m told). Of the doctors and nurses that have attended me, the vast majority have commented on the extreme peace I exhibit — and most want to know why I have it. A few have asked me directly. More often they query my wife. One doctor asked my sister. But the majority opinion is that I am somehow different. That I’m not normal. That I am in possession of something the average individual does not have.