Four Years
Today marks four years since the day I’m about to describe. It was the day I lost a part of me, leaving a hollowness impossible to ever fill again. Nothing really prepares you for death; nobody gives you a pamphlet or a lecture on what to expect but I suppose it’s different for everyone. At 2:20 AM, after checking on Mike and his breathing all night, the nurse finally woke us up to tell us his breathing had slowed down. Everything was fairly calm, it was obviously happening the way she expected it would; she must have experienced this kind of thing plenty of times before. We, of course, had not. So when I went to bed the night before, I was thinking Mike may have days, or weeks, or months, or even years left. I sat up immediately, and Trisha was quickly at Mike’s other side. The nurse reassured me he had just taken two breaths, so he was still here. Ugh, that awful knot is back in my stomach. This is hard. I thought it would be easier. I’ve thought about those moments so many times. ...