There’s really no good way to recap this. It is all such a blur, but a painful, numbing one and not the fluid or fuzzy kind of blur. I stared at the clock on my car dashboard today as the time changed to 12:55pm – the time they ‘called’ his death and stopped efforts to revive him. I know now he was already long gone by then. The sound of the voice in the room that had to utter that official phrase to record his death still rings in my ears.
I’m my mind, I know he took his last breaths and his heart beat it’s last times in the moments we were making the 911 call and I was holding him and trying to stimulate him to breathe. Those moments, with us, in our house, were his last. Everything after that now just seems like a formality we have had to endure to try to save him because of our own expectations. I hear phantom cries in the mornings when I first wake up. Continue reading “Month One”