“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.”
* * *
“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”
* * *
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
—Pooh, Winnie the Pooh
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I can scarcely bring myself to write this, but my beloved husband, Michael, died almost instantly of a heart attack on the morning of Sunday, July 21, 2024.
I have lost my precious soulmate; my best friend; the love of my life; my kitty coparent; my inspiration; my creative partner; my favorite composer; my counselor; my constructive critic; my cheerleader; my spiritual and philosophical guide; and my wise, hilarious, and brilliant husband—something I didn’t think I would have to suffer for decades, if ever.
I have no words, too many words, not enough words.
I feel like I’ve been sawed in half and gangrene has set in. With each passing day, the pain becomes sharper as the shock wears off and gives way to the realization that this isn’t a dream. This is reality. This is permanent. This is forever.
Michael is my one and only—ever. We have been together for more than half our lives, and he is half my memories, half my mind, half my heart, half my soul.
I feel shattered, shell-shocked, disemboweled. There is a Jupiter-sized crater in our home, in my heart.
On July 21, I woke up at 3:59 am. Michael was already up. I would later learn from his Apple Watch that he had slept four-and-a-half hours and had a 36-percent sleep deficit. This wouldn’t have worried him. Very little did.
After changing kitty water bowls and feeding the indoor and outdoor kitties, I made Michael’s usual breakfast: two fried eggs with broken yolks served over my homemade keto bun with a side of bacon.
I brought him his breakfast and kissed him, like I always did. He took the plate, kissed me back, and thanked me, like he always did.
He usually played a video while eating. He checked his YouTube feed and found a recent interview with Whitney Webb.
“Have we seen this already?” he asked.
“I think so, but it’s important enough that it’s worth watching again,” I replied as I started laying down strips of bacon in a pan to replenish the batch he’d just finished.
After the video finished playing and I’d placed the bacon in the toaster oven, I went out back to pick up a kitty plate and noticed a bumblebee caught in a cobweb. I helped him flee the web. He tried to fly away, but he couldn’t figure out how to escape the wisteria-laden pergola and kept winding up back in the cobwebs. I retrieved a broom from the garage and brushed away the gossamer so the bumblebee could fly free.
While I had the broom in my hand, I decided to sweep away the cobwebs from the front. Just as I was about to open the front door, Michael asked, “What’re you doing?”
“I’m sweeping away the cobwebs. I just had to rescue a bumblebee from the back again and don’t want any more bugs to get hurt.”
“You’re going to destroy the spiders’ homes?” he asked. His nickname is the Patron Saint of Insects (which should really include “and Spiders”) because he is fiercely protective of all forms of life and thinks people should leave nature alone.
“One is a matter of life-and-death, and the other is a temporary inconvenience, so I’ll choose destroying homes.”
I started sweeping the front walkway at 5:19 am and returned inside at 5:33 am according to our security camera.
I noticed Michael had turned around in his recliner with his head tucked into a pillow. This usually meant he didn’t feel well, so I got worried.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
“I’m having chest pain,” he said. “I had some yesterday after eating, too.”
“Do you think it’s heartburn?” I asked.
“No, it’s not heartburn.”
“Do you think it’s a heart attack?”
“I don’t think so. It’s just very uncomfortable.” I didn’t know those were the last words he would ever speak to me.
I had an ominous feeling, but he didn’t like me hovering when he felt ill, so I went to the bathroom. I decided to suggest he take an aspirin and consider going to the hospital when I got back.
But I didn’t get a chance to.
I heard a thud.
Our fluffy ginger kitty, Sunny, froze in the hallway and stared toward the living room.
I raced out and found Michael lying on his back, propped up at an angle on a pile of blankets and clothes.
He was gazing straight ahead, silent. Then he let out a gasp.
“Michael? Michael?!!” I yelled.
I ran to the kitchen to grab my phone and dialed 911 at 5:37 am.
I put the phone on speaker as the operator instructed me on CPR. I performed chest compressions, and we both shouted “1, 2, 3, 4” as I did them.
“You’re doing great,” the operator said. “Keep going.”
Michael began gasping, so I thought I was saving his life.
I did hundreds of compressions punctuated by screams of, “Fight, baby!,” “Michael! Stay with me!,” and “I love you, Michael!” until the paramedics arrived at 5:44 am.
The operator let me know the paramedics were almost at the door. She had me stop the CPR so I could run and unlock it.
Paramedics, police, and firefighters poured into our cluttered house.
“Start clearing this out,” one said. I tossed the recently delivered boxes of cat food from the entryway into the hallway while the firefighters shoved aside furniture, weightlifting equipment, piles of books, and everything else in their way. Kitties flew in all directions, seeking hiding places and yowling in terror.
The paramedics pulled Michael onto the floor, got him flat on his back, and started CPR. They performed multiple rounds of shocks and epinephrine injections. Everything was happening in fast-motion and slow-motion at the same time.
An empathetic policeman asked if there was anyone I could call, so I dialed my mom’s number. It was 5:55 am.
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“Michael had a heart attack, and the paramedics are here,” I told her. “Can you come over and take me to the hospital?”
“Oh no!” she cried. “I’ll be right over, baby.”
I asked the officer if I should get dressed to go to the hospital. That’s when he explained they had to get Michael stabilized before transporting him.
I watched them taking turns doing CPR, testing, and shocking him.
Then the policeman pulled me into the kitchen and explained Michael hadn’t had a heartbeat for thirty-five minutes. They had followed all of the protocols and did everything the maximum number of times they were permitted, but he didn’t respond to any of them, and his brain had gone without oxygen the entire time.
He called a doctor, explained the medical details, and got the go-ahead to declare him dead.
