July 13, 2011.
We had gone to sleep the night before, and I still don't recall saying goodnight.
Or saying anything.
We simply fell asleep, in the exhaustion of having two jobs and being busy and life.
A few hours later, he had left for his volenteer job at the local Petsmart,
helping out with cat adoptions, and then stocking pet food.
But he never got around to any of that.
His manager found him collapsed on the cold, hard floor instead,
about 90 minutes after arriving to work.
(Just a side note; I don't actually know for a fact that the floor was cold, but for some reason, whenever I describe it to anyone or write about it, I always describe it as a cold floor. I just picture it and see it as being cold. These are the kinds of things, big and small, that trauma puts into our heads.)
My very healthy and active husband,
who was a paramedic and saved other people's lives daily,
suffered from a massive heart attack at only age 46.
No symptoms. No warnings. No goodbyes.
Here one second,
Gone the next.
On that morning, I literally woke up to my new reality and the new life I didn't want, as my husband was gone from our apartment, and gone from Earth.
And since that catastrophic day,
I have been counting,
both consciously and subconsciously,
every month, week, hour, minute, and second,
since he died.
On the 13th of every month,
my heart would automatically know it was the 13th.
On the rare occasion that I didn't know within minutes of waking up,
my body would remind me.
I would feel "off",
or really, really awful.
If it was the 13th of the month, AND a Wednesday,
that was even worse.
I would re-live "that day",
again and again
For over 2 years.
Until this week.
This week, someone innocently asked me,
"How long has it been since your husband died?"
And instead of blurting out, like a robot,
my completely normal response of:
"It has been 2 years, 4 months, 5 days, 17 hours, and 3 minutes since my love died" -
something bizarre happened.
For a few seconds in time,
I could not recall the exact time that had gone by since his death.
I had to think about it.
It required math.
I had to use my fingers, and carry the one.
That had never happened before.