It’s surreal to think that four years ago today I came home from work and found my husband in a coma.
Even more so that he was dead little more than 48 hours later.
The dictionary defines surreal as “having an oddly dreamlike quality.”
Yea, that about describes it, except I might replace dreamlike with nightmarish.
Even now, four years later, the whole thing plays in my head like one of those old 8mm films my grandfather used to have. There’s no sound, just the flickering images. Gregory falling, getting up, laughing about it, saying he was fine. Me pushing him repeatedly to go get checked, him steadfastly refusing, me finally acquiescing. Three days of normalcy, nothing more than a black eye and a funny story to tell our family.
How would I know this would be the last picture I’d ever take of him?? How did we go from there, to here?
It was supposed to be a funny story. And then it was the end of ours.
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