That Day.

That Day began at 4:50am.

It wasn't a good day.

My husband woke up and fell.

It was the fall that woke me up. 

In typical "I hate the morning" fashion, a few four letter words slipped out before I realized what was happening.  I ran to his side of the bed where he was slumped between the bed and the wall.  He didn't answer me when I called his name.  Didn't respond to me when I screamed in his face and smacked his cheek.  Didn't focus, didn't blink, didn't breathe.  

Part of me knew what was happening and how this moment was going to end.

Part of me refused to accept it.

I called 911. The police came almost immediately.  Then paramedics.  Then my sister.

They took him in the ambulance and we followed.

At the hospital they told me what I already knew.

My husband, my love, my best friend and my most favorite person in the world - the man I had spent a lifetime looking for and finally found when I was 41, was gone.

That Day was the worst.  

And it was only the first of many.